


Musketeers - Febuwhump '21

by nostrix



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, NO character death here lads, Rescue, Swordfighting, Torture, Whump, lots of comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 43,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29143407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostrix/pseuds/nostrix
Summary: collection of whump prompt fills!
Comments: 266
Kudos: 91
Collections: The Musketeers Whump Collection





	1. Day 1 - Mind Control

The worst part of it all, Porthos thinks, is that he is aware of everything. 

He cannot begin to describe the sheer helplessness he feels in that moment, his limbs moving without his consent, slashing, thrusting, parrying as if his body has a mind of it’s own. With each attack he is desperate to cry out, to tell them to get back, save themselves and that _it’s not me doing this I swear_ , but he is unable to even whisper. 

He is aware of everything, and yet completely, utterly powerless to fight against it. 

Aramis lies in a heap, unmoving against the low wall of the house they’d come to investigate, and d’Artagnan stands before him, bloody and panting yet still standing. Porthos would feel proud if it weren’t for the unadulterated fear racing through him; the boy is a good fighter, but Porthos has strength and stamina on his side, and he knows d’Artagnan will not back down if it means abandoning his friend, even if it leads to his own downfall. Porthos curses his Gascon stubborn streak in that moment, equal parts despairing and frustrated beyond measure that he cannot shout at him to just _leave_ him. 

He swings again, and the fight continues. With each attack Porthos fears it will be the last, the final move that will rend his friend’s soul from his flesh, but d’Artagnan keeps pace with him, always blocking and dodging and never once returning blows. Porthos wants to _scream_ at him to just strike him down, to save himself before it’s too late because he will _not_ watch himself kill his friend, like he might have also killed Aramis. He would rather die. 

They fight for what feels like hours to Porthos’ terrified mind, and he sees fatigue begin to edge itself into d’Artagnan’s movements, making him slower despite his determination. Porthos can feel his own limbs trembling as well, can feel the pain that comes with such continuous strain on his muscles, and yet his body pushes itself past his own limits and delivers blow after punishing blow against his will. 

The turning point in their fight comes fast – one moment d’Artagnan is blocking a strike aimed at his upper shoulder, the next his tired muscles are failing him and Porthos’ rapier cuts into his bicep, neatly scoring the flesh and sending d’Artagnan’s own weapon – his only defence – spinning into the ground a few feet away. 

D’Artagnan grunts in surprise and pain, and Porthos unwillingly presses his advantage, grabbing a handful of his shirt and dragging him to his knees. He feels his puppeted sword-arm rising, angling the blade dangerously towards the vulnerable flesh of his neck, tip barely pressing into the skin and yet the horror Porthos feels now is incomparable. 

They both know what happens next. 

Porthos looks on in horrified clarity as his sword digs into flesh, feels himself start to push forwards with the blade slowly, as if time had cruelly stopped for this moment to etch itself into his memory. 

He looks up and sees d’Artagnan’s face, full of fear and pain and love and mouthing _it’s okay, Porthos_. 

And then, it’s like his strings have suddenly been cut. 

Before he knows it he’s reeling back and flinging his rapier to the side as if it burned, falling to his knees in shock before realising the ringing in his ears is his own voice, finally able to cry out against his own body. 

He clenches his trembling fists, half in disbelief that he could freely move again, and then looks up to d’Artagnan, stumbling over apologies and pleas for forgiveness as he curls himself inwards in shame. But d’Artagnan is there, talking over his rambling and sobbing and takes his hands, tells him it’s alright, it’s over, _I know you’d never want to hurt me, it’s not your fault, you’re free now_. 

It takes some time before Porthos registers Athos’ presence, and he explains that he’d found the magician apparently just in time, had killed him to break the enchantment over his brother’s soul in a fit of righteous fury. Aramis has roused himself, bruised but whole, and joins his brothers in making sure they are all as well as can be, considering. 

Porthos flinches at their first contact, half convinced he is still a danger to them, but they are all quick to reassure him with words of forgiveness and comforting embraces. He can’t pretend he isn’t touched by their boundless faith in him, even if he has none in himself. 

What follows is several months' worth of sleepless nights, and days filled with the fear of yet again losing control. He has to fight to ignore visions of his injured brothers each time he picks up his sword, has to train himself out of holding back when they spar. 

It’s slow work, but his brothers are with him every step of the way, until the day he finds he can trust himself again.


	2. Day 2 - "I can't take this anymore"

D’Artagnan is crouched in the underbrush with Aramis, eyes on the large bandit camp and ears pricked for signs of movement near their position. Hopefully Porthos would not take too long to return with reinforcements, then they could round up the thieves and finish their mission. 

The four of them had been investigating a missing shipment of gunpowder meant for the Red Guard, and there was talk of a group aiming to use explosives to infiltrate the palace, so naturally Treville had entrusted them with this task in order to lay the King’s fears to rest. They had traced its route back upriver, where they found which village the traders had passed through last. 

Unfortunately, the thieves had caught wind of them sniffing around despite their every caution, and they found themselves having to dispatch an ambush at the forest’s edge. Athos had been faced with a brutish opponent and took a hard blow to his leg that shattered the bone, leaving him unable to ride back to travel on horse for medical treatment. This left Porthos and d’Artagnan to scout out the location of the thieves and their stolen gunpowder, and Porthos rode speedily back to Paris to inform Treville, and to bring back more musketeers to aid in the villains’ capture. 

It would be a day’s ride there and another back, so the remaining three camped out overnight, Aramis doing what he could for Athos’ leg, and in the morning he and d’Artagnan left him with their horses in order to keep watch on their targets in case they moved on, and provide backup for the rest of the regiment when they came. 

It's past midday when there comes a bustle in the camp, and d’Artagnan swears quietly as he watches Athos, hands tied and injured leg trailing uselessly behind him, being dragged by two thugs and followed by half a dozen more into the centre of the camp. He’s dumped at the feet of a man looking no different from the rest of the bandits, but who carries himself with much more self-importance, and who is undoubtedly the leader. 

Aramis is tense beside d’Artagnan, and yet it's he who puts a restraining arm on the younger when he makes to draw his pistol. 

“We’re outnumbered,” he reminds him quietly, “we can’t just go running in, they’ll kill us both and then we’ll be in no place to save anyone.” 

“But they have _Athos_ , you can’t expect us to sit around and watch, who knows what they’ll do to him?” D’Artagnan looks panicked and not a little furious. 

“Athos would say the same; we only have to hold on ‘til Porthos returns with help, but until then to run into that camp without backup would be suicide.” 

D’Artagnan isn’t happy about it, but he can’t dispute that logic. They turn back in time to see Athos receive a solid punch that snaps his head to the side, but he stays resolutely silent and stone-faced. 

It’s not wholly clear from so far away what they are saying, but they eventually piece together that they are asking who he is with to be guarding three horses, and where his accomplices have gone. There is no question that Athos would never be able to give up his brothers for his own safety, and d’Artagnan fervently hopes that Porthos will return before it’s too late. 

Watching Athos getting kicked about each time he refuses to answer is incredibly distressing for the pair, and d’Artagnan half wishes he would just tell them what he knows if it means they’d stop hurting him, though he knows the chances are slim. He bites at his lip in worry, but bears the wait and prays for intervention. 

It is when Athos begins to sway and slump over for longer between hits, no longer straight-backed and defiant but instead groaning and spitting blood, that d’Artagnan makes his decision. 

“I can’t take this anymore,” he declares, re-checking his loaded pistols, “ _he_ can’t take this, they’re going to kill him and Porthos isn’t back yet, we have to do something.” 

D’Artagnan looks over at Aramis and sees no uncertainty on his face, only the same anger and determination he himself feels. 

“Then let’s go.” 

D’Artagnan explodes from the foliage in a rain of bullets, hitting the two sentries nearest to their hiding spot with his pistols and felling a third with his rapier, before flinging his main gauche with a cry at the leader, still looming over his mentor. The man drops near instantly, dead from the blade in his eye, while the others spin towards him and draw their own weapons, charging at the intruder. 

He hears Aramis firing with his harquebus from a distance, covering him as he runs full speed towards his enemies. The thieves don’t get a chance to even aim their own weapons before d’Artagnan is upon them, charging towards his enemies with wild fury. The commotion has drawn full attention, and he finds himself facing down more enemies than he can count as he backs gradually away from the centre of the camp, away from where he knows Aramis is now taking advantage of his distraction to hurry Athos to safety. 

From the corner of his eye he sees a flurry of brown leather joining the fight, and feels relief flood through him that their rescue has been successful so far; Athos is out of danger and Aramis has returned, which could only mean Athos isn’t in any immediate danger. 

D'Artagnan turns just in time to block a sword aimed at his head with his forearm, but the leather there is too thin to protect him very well. The sharp pain cuts through his concentration, and he almost misses another blade swinging towards his thigh that he has to quickly hop to avoid. He hears Aramis grunt a couple of times, but the clanging of blades continues and d’Artagnan can spare no other thought for him in that moment. These men know to attack relentlessly and in unison, and d’Artagnan sorely wishes they had Athos and Porthos at their backs. 

As if by fate, he hears the sound of hoofbeats approaching, and Treville’s commanding voice calling for surrender. 

Beside him, Porthos swiftly dismounts his own horse and throws himself into the fray, easily situating himself beside d’Artagnan and Aramis, lending them reassurance by his presence alone. 

The group surrounding the trio falters at the new arrivals, some attempting to run off through the encampment and some still believing that they can best the musketeers full force, but they are quickly subdued by other members of the regiment. 

As the bandits are rounded up into the cart to return to Paris and face their crimes, Porthos turns to d’Artagnan, runs an assessing gaze over his more clearly dishevelled and bloody countenance, and reaches out to grasp both him and Aramis by the shoulder in greeting. 

There is no time for a proper reunion, however, and they quickly follow Aramis back to where he stashed Athos, covered in his and Aramis’ blue capes and a disguising scattering of autumn leaves. He stirs when they reach him, grimacing in pain as he tries to move, before resigning himself to his injuries and letting himself be carried to the cart Porthos had arranged. 

\---- 

Athos wakes up in the garrison infirmary, warm and suspiciously comfortable; he had obviously been given something for the pain of his broken leg and vast bruising before he awoke. He lies still in the dim light of dawn for a moment, arranging his thoughts, and then takes a look around him. 

He sees Porthos first, slumped in a chair between his bed and the next, head tipped back and mouth parted slightly. The man had obviously tried to keep watch over him for too long a time, but Athos doesn’t know how long he himself had been asleep for. 

In the bed to his left are both Aramis and d’Artagnan, laying tangled together in their sleep and reclined against the wall behind them, evidently having stayed up late talking and dropped off before meaning to. There are bandages wrapped around some of their visible skin, and Aramis sports a dashing black eye as well. 

Despite his guilt and frustration in knowing they both put their lives at risk for his own, more than anything he feels a swell of gratitude at what they did to protect him, and knows he would have done the same for any one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually really like fight scenes and 17th century weaponry and figuring out the mechanics of a good fight, but it takes a bit of effort and didn't feel right in this chapter. maybe one day
> 
> next chapter i will write in past tense since it's my default, i kind of shot myself in the foot starting off present day then leaping back to past events with a different tense, i hope it wasn't too messy (this has not been read through more than once so i just don't know)


	3. day 3 - imprisonment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite studying it for literally 7 years (english schools are bullshit for languages) I don’t know my french honorifics, I made mr evil a baron in this, and I read that he could be called seigneur which could be applied to aristocrats in general, but then I read elsewhere that monseigneur was used like your eminence/grace so I thought safer to stay with monsieur, maybe im overthinking it idk. I only used the word once. If you know the proper way please tell me  
> again this chapter hasn't been read through and iw as tired when i wrote the majority last night (it turned out much bigger than i'd anticipated) so hopefully it makes sense, if there's any mistakes or typos do let me know. enjoy <3

The only warning d’Artagnan had that he’d been discovered was the slight scuff of boots on the stone floor behind him and the swish of clothing signalling movement, but by then it was too late to run. 

With a hand already on the hilt of his rapier, he spun about and was met with a swift and forceful punch to the face that made his eyes water. Before he had the chance to retaliate, he was tackled to the floor from behind by the heavy weight of a second guard. D'Artagnan struggled, trying to roll out from underneath the guard, but there was a knee in his back and a hand pressing his face into the stone slabs and he could not fight against the strong hands grabbing at his arms and tying them behind his back with rope. 

Two more guards rounded the corner at the commotion, and when he was dragged to stand up he realised struggling was pointless; he would not be able to take them on as he was. They divested him of his rapier and main gauche, his pistol, and searched him for any concealed weapons, eventually also finding the dagger stowed in his left boot. 

They marched him down two corridors and in through a pair of wooden doors to a room dressed up in extravagant fabric hangings and wall-mounted animal busts, wherein stood a wispy-looking man who clearly thought too highly of himself. He turned at the intrusion, hastily trying to cover up his surprise and nerves at seeing a musketeer pauldron in his own chateau, and drew himself up a little, looking to his guards for explanation. 

“Found this one sneaking around, monsieur,” said the guard on d’Artagnan’s left, still holding him by a grip on his elbow and shoulder. 

D’Artagnan had been previously searched, but they did not check the inside seam of his jerkin, where the leather would protect the letter hidden within from most damage and, more importantly, keep it secure from the fumbled searchings of an over-paid group of men. The man opposite him, Baron Brochard, had been suspected of selling secrets to the Spanish in exchange for coin, as evidenced by his exorbitant dress and belongings and increased personal guard, but they needed hard evidence in order to bring him to any justice, and that was what d’Artagnan needed to protect. 

“Was he, now?” Brochard’s eyes flickered down to his musketeer pauldron again, and he could almost see the wheels turning to figure out a solution. “What were you hoping to find, hm?” He said, getting closer to d’Artagnan, but apparently not expecting an answer. 

“Who sent you?” 

D’Artagnan kept his mouth closed, not having an answer that would get him out of this situation. The baron huffed in feigned amusement, but the tension in the set of his jaw was visible. 

“Why don’t we just kill him?” The guard on d’Artagnan’s right spoke up this time, seemingly itching for his sword. 

“No, that would draw too much attention. If a King’s soldier goes missing while investigating me, it would draw even more suspicion.” Brochard paused for a moment. “Get him to talk, make him tell us who sent him, who suspects me, and then we can cut the problem off at its source.” 

With that, d’Artagnan was escorted back down through the chateau, but this time they descended two flights of stairs, past one cellar level where they stored the wine, and into another, darker passage. There were two heavy wooden doors – presumably both cells, which came as no surprise considering the baron’s suspicious nature. 

As they walked down the narrow stone passageway, one guard ahead and one right behind him, d’Artagnan pretended to stumble, letting his weight fall back into the guard behind him. The man shoved at him in annoyance and told him to keep moving, but d’Artagnan’s hands behind his back had already stolen a set of keys from the man’s belt in the contact and he stealthily snuck them into his waistband. There was an identical set on the other guard’s belt, so d’Artagnan had to hope that the one with the keys was the one to lock the cell door, lest his robbery be discovered. 

The arrived at the second door and the guard in front of them unlocked the cell, leaving his keys in the door, and d’Artagnan hid a sigh of relief. They escorted him inside and shackled his wrists by a long piece of chain threaded through a loop on the wall, before untying the rope. 

He didn’t expect to be left alone and in perfect unharmed condition, but the kick aimed at his ribs hurt all the same, as to the subsequent blows rained down upon him. His restrained arms could not protect him, and he did his best to bear each attack with dignity, the weight of the key on his person a reassurance that he only had to get through this and then he could leave. 

He was a bruised mess by the time the guards grew bored of him, and each movement brought with it a new ache, but he let out a breath when the door to his cell was finally locked and he was left alone. 

The loop was affixed to the wall with a large screw, and over time the use of it had caused the wall to wear away around it, and d’Artagnan blessed the lazy work of whoever installed it. He began to tug, placing his feet against the wall as leverage, and did his best to ignore the shackles abrading his wrists as he worked to loosen 

It took awkward fumbling behind him and a few good yanks to dislodge the metal before he could begin to unscrew it from the wall, but in under fifteen minutes it was out, and he could step over the chain, bringing it round to his front. 

The shackles themselves were fitted with a bolt, so there was nothing he could do about removing them himself. He took the keys and quietly unlocked the door, putting an ear to the wood to make sure there was no movement outside. With the hall seemingly empty, he had no other option than to press on and open the door. He poked his head out slowly and, when he saw nobody, exited the cell, locking it again to buy him a little time before his discovery. 

The corridor was dark, lit only by the dim light of a candle holder near the bottom of the cellar stairs, and he was thankful of the cover of darkness when a guard walked past. He flattened himself within a shadowed alcove and waited for the footsteps to retreat. Leaving the key on the floor to reduce noise, he made his way towards the candle-lit staircase. 

At that moment, the guard from earlier turned just in time to see him exit the dungeon corridor, surprise on his expression, but before he could call for help d’Artagnan flung the chain around his neck and caught the other side, positioning himself behind the man to choke him out. The guard’s hands scratched at d’Artagnan’s arms, but eventually the struggling ceased and he dragged the unconscious body into the alcove he’d just left, hoping it wouldn’t be discovered too soon. 

Thankfully the rest of his journey was largely uneventful, with only a few men milling about that were easily avoided. He slunk past open doorways and hid behind stone pillars and doors, eventually making his way towards natural light. He had the evidence, he had escaped, and he may have lost his weapons but the most important objective was to escape the chateau before his absence in the cell was found out. 

There was a door leading outside, near enough to the kitchens for it to be used mainly by servants and therefore less noticeable, so he took a glance around him before slinking through it, thankful that the hinges didn’t creak. 

He found himself outside, the dawn light just beginning to seep through the clouds, and knew he wouldn’t be reliant on the cover of darkness for much longer. His brothers were waiting for him to return, and would be suspicious if he wasn’t at their meeting point when the sun came up. He hoped he would make it there on time. 

Moving swiftly through the dewy grass he headed for the forest, where he could be hidden between the trees and breathe easy at last. However, just as he approached the outer wall he heard voices heading in his direction, and he hurriedly crept back towards the house to escape their view. 

It wasn’t until he reached the courtyard that he saw movement from the corner of his eye, having been focussed on the patrolling men still approaching, and found himself facing a single guard who hadn’t expected an encounter with the prisoner. Once again, before the guard could summon help d’Artagnan silenced him with a chain-assisted choke hold, but the damage was done: the clatter from his restraints and the sound of the guard dropping his sword drew attention to his position, out in the open and exposed with no cover, and the patrolling men spotted him with ease. 

D’Artagnan made to leave, but there was a shout from the men who had seen him, and very quickly he found he had no direction to flee in without having to take down a guard, but he had no choice. He ran towards the forest, hoping to put distance between himself and the building full of enemies, and on his way dodged the swing of a blade, bringing his hands up in response and pushing hard with his momentum to topple the guard to the floor, then carried on running. Another guard attempted to simply catch him as he passes by, but d’Artagnan whipped the chain at his midsection and winded him successfully. 

He tried to use his speed to evade his enemies and break for freedom, but between the grabbing hands and dodging of attacks he found himself quickly overwhelmed once more. 

A man grabbed onto the chain between his wrists, and d’Artagnan twisted madly to get free, but it was no use. They pushed him to the ground, knees hitting stone painfully, and the man quickly got behind him to pull his arms back with the chain. A kick aimed at his chest sent him sprawling backwards, landing awkwardly on his arms now tangled in the chain. The man who kicked him stepped forward and placed his boot on his chest. D’Artagnan struggled to free his arms from beneath him, to grab onto the boot or fight off his captor, but stilled when the boot moved to his face and pressed down harshly, grinding his skull into the cold stone. 

The sun was now shining brightly, its warmth directly contrasting d’Artagnan’s feeling of dread and frustration, and he mourned how very close he had been to freedom not moments ago. Brochard entered the courtyard through the building’s decadent front door, making his way towards the source of the bustle with a smug look upon his face. The guards stood threateningly around d’Artagnan, who grit his teeth as he was hauled to his knees by a painful grip in his hair. He knew there would be no second chance of escape now. 

All of a sudden, the crack of a pistol tore through the morning air, and the guard holding him up let go with a cry of pain, holding his arm close to his chest. 

As one, all eyes turned towards the entrance gate where, silhouetted by the morning rays, stood Aramis - gun still smoking – and Athos. 

“I suggest you let him go,” Athos began, gesturing to d’Artagnan,” and surrender yourself, Brochard. You are hereby under arrest for kidnapping and conspiring against the crown. It would be wise for you to come willingly or we may have to use force.” Athos’ face showed just how much he wouldn’t mind him putting up a fight. 

Brochard, though initially shocked, seemed now unfazed by the two musketeers on his property, and he stepped back with a pointed look around himself. 

“I think you’ll find yourselves outnumbered here, musketeer,” he sneered, “and I have done nothing wrong. I am simply punishing a trespasser and a thief.” 

“We have hard evidence of your treason, nothing you can do will help worm yourself out of this,” Aramis piped up, waving a creased envelope. Brochard was silent, face red and beading sweat and hand’s trembling with nerves. 

“Men, kill them both – and make sure to retrieve that letter!” He looked on the verge of panic. “If any of this gets into the wrong hands I’ll be executed.” 

With that, his men charged towards their targets in a flurry of action, and d’Artagnan quickly rolled away to avoid being trampled. He came to a stop and brough the chain between his wrists taught above his head just in time to prevent a heavy downward slash aimed at his head. Wrapping the chain around the blade, he tugged hard and aimed a kick at the guard until he relinquished his grip, and jumped into the fray with his weapon and renewed vigour to aid his brothers. 

Meanwhile, Brochard had tried to abandon the fight and save himself, but was stopped when he ran into Porthos blocking his way, having pre-empted the escape attempt. 

With their employer now bound and no reason to owe him loyalty, many of the guards saw no reason to continue fighting, and simply abandoned the baron to his fate. Between the four of them, any stragglers were quickly taken care of. 

Aramis was the first to reach d’Artagnan, and swept an assessing gaze over his roughened state, before drawing him into a relieved embrace. The younger musketeer sank into it, relishing the warmth and security it brought him. Athos stood watch over their captive as Porthos scavenged for some tools to remove d’Artagnan’s shackles, and then they were back at their small camp with their horses and supplies. 

Aramis cleaned and bandaged his bloodied wrists with care, and d’Artagnan remembered their dramatic entrance earlier with some confusion. 

“How did you find any evidence?” He asked, after producing his own letter and handing it to Athos for safekeeping. Aramis looked confused for a moment, then laughed. 

“Oh, we didn’t have any evidence at all,” he replied, setting aside the bandages and drawing out the envelope from his jacket and showing its contents to d’Artagnan. “We just hoped that he’d fall for it, and that you'd have the real one.” Brochard sent an infuriated glare at him from where he was tied to the tree, and d’Artagnan laughed in surprise when he saw the blank paper. 

Upon d’Artagnan’s insistence, they decide to leave for Paris immediately rather than wait for him to rest. As they saddled up, Athos tossed his blue cape at d’Artagnan, telling him that he needed it more. The Gascon bit back his usual protestations at the coddling, knowing that his friends felt the need to take care of him as much to reassure themselves as him. And so, they set off together – mission successful - and began the journey home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the premise may be flimsy but i love sneaking and escape plots too much. d'art taking the guard's keys while his hands are tied behind his back is totally stolen from a similar scene with luke's character in snatch, only i was picturing shackles that had a flat side and secured with a bolt not a key? i spent some time researching last night and went down a rabbit hole about medieval torture but still no clear answer on restraints so i just went with what fit the plot.
> 
> also i got through the whole chapter and reaslied there was just no dialogue and it felt a bit detached, idk if you got the same feeling. i do struggle with speech options so i often omit it by accident, i wonder how noticeable that is when you're reading it for the first time


	4. day 4 - impaled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think it's safe to say from here on out that i'm not reading through these chapters very well due to time constraints, but hopefully it's not too glaring. let me know what you think!

D’Artagnan awoke slowly, roused by the sound of his name being called softly but with urgency. His head pounded, the throb emanating from the back of his skull, and he groaned as the pressure behind his eyes became more evident as he regained consciousness. 

“D’Artagnan, wake up, speak to me.” 

That was Athos’ voice. He looked up, relieved that the light was dim enough for him to see without causing him pain. He shifted, or tried to, and found his hands and feet were tightly bound with rope, and was instantly aware. 

“Athos,” he rasped, and had to swallow before speaking again. “What happened? Where are we?” 

Athos seemed to be no worse for wear really, similarly bound, but d’Artagnan frowned when he noted they were on opposite sides of a windowless room, and it was split down the middle with cage bars. 

“I don’t know where we are, they blindfolded me on the way down,” Athos said, shifting to sit more upright against the bars, and d’Artagnan moved to lean himself against them too, the closeness bringing him comfort. “They took us by surprise and you got knocked out; I couldn’t let you be taken by yourself.” 

D’Artagnan nodded, thankful that he wasn’t alone but hoping it wouldn’t mean Athos had just put himself in danger for him. 

“So, I suppose this is how all those mystery disappearances came about then. Let’s hope there’s an easy way out of here.” 

Athos had already tried to untie his own wrists without success, and they couldn’t fit their hands through the bars enough to help each other out, so they ended up sitting and waiting for someone to show themselves. 

They didn’t have to wait long, because the door on d’Artagnan’s side was suddenly opened and a group of men entered dressed quite ordinary except for the strange pale robes they wore draped openly, with even stranger symbols adorning them. D’Artagnan shuffled back hesitantly when they came for him, but one dragged him back by the feet until two of them could take hold of his arms. Athos growled threats uselessly at them, and almost as quick as they came, they left the room, with Athos alone and confused, and not a little scared for the Gascon. 

D’Artagnan was dragged into a separate room and made to bathe, wisely not putting up a struggle under the threat that they would wash him themselves if he did not. Once he was done, he redressed in thin white clothes that did nothing to stave off the chill in the air or offer any protection. Feeling like he was dressed up for an execution but having no escape options, he was made to follow the group barefoot out into a series of winding corridors. 

As they walked, d’Artagnan noticed more and more strangely dressed men joining their journey and walking both ahead and behind him and a sinking feeling of dread settled itself heavy in his stomach. Everywhere he looked were locked doors and a troubling lack of windows, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on the smell that seeped through the air the further they walked. 

Eventually they came upon a large doorway leading to a larger room, and d’Artagnan felt his heart beating in his throat at the number of people crowded around the edges. The walls were lines with effigies and grisly murals painted in unknown substances, and he suppressed a shudder when his imagination began to explore what it all meant. 

Athos was already in the room, stood near the centre and held in place by two of the more burly-looking men, hands still tied and now with a cloth gag at his mouth. His expression was part fury and part hopeless despair, and d’Artagnan didn’t quite understand why until the crowd before him parted to reveal the centre of the room, wherein stood a crude stone altar with a wooden cross laid horizontally upon it. 

Realisation dawned quickly upon him, and he put up as much of a fight as he could while they walked him forcefully to the altar, and multiple hands worked in tandem to wrestle his struggling limbs down across the wood. He felt coarse rope wrap tightly around his wrists and ankles aligning with the shape of the planks, and when he didn’t stop trying to wrench free they tie another length around the wood and his neck, leaving just enough room that he wouldn’t choke himself if he didn’t move. 

Through the thunder of blood pounding through his ears hears a single man talking, dressed all in red, and the crowd of fanatics chanted back after each speech. He caught something along the lines of _he shall suffer as the Lord Christ suffered, and the pain of his father will grant us absolution_ , clearly referring to the older musketeer. 

“ _Athos_ ,” d’Artagnan called, in a voice much smaller than he’d intended, twisting his head awkwardly to search with panicked eyes for his mentor. Athos was looking at him in abject horror and helplessness, straining in desperation against the hands holding him captive. A hand was fisted into his hair and angling his face forward to make him watch, and he holds d’Artagnan’s gaze as if to lend him strength. 

The zealot in red was handed a long nail and mallet, his speech having come to a close, and somebody out of view held down d’Artagnan’s wrist and pried his trembling fingers open to expose his palm. 

“Please,” he began, frantic and terrified in the face of impending pain, “you don’t have to do this, _please_ , just think this through _this isn’t the way_ -” 

His desperate pleas went unheard, as if he wasn't saying anything, and the nail tip rested sharp on his shaking palm. The quiet chanting he heard increased in volume and his breaths came harsher and shorter, his begging unending until- 

The mallet came down hard, and d’Artagnan’s agonized scream pierced the air. 

He barely heard his voice break in pain as the nail forced its entrance through the meat of his hand, and the impact from the blow sent agony reverberating through his very bones. Blood immediately welled up in his hand, warm and sickening and dripping freely down from wooden cross to the altar. 

It took several strikes for the nail to fully pierce the flesh and embed itself in the wood below, and by that time d’Artagnan’s screams had devolved to harsh sobs and whimpers, his face strewn with tears. The blood was tacky under his arm and he wanted to vomit. He was barely coherent enough to register Athos, shouting furiously behind the gag and struggling to make his way to him, attempting to fight of the hands holding him back. His eyes were red and wet and full of anger, but he did not look away from d’Artagnan - he would not let him suffer alone. 

Hands moved to d’Artagnan’s right arm now, similarly restraining his movement, and the red zealot had taken up another nail, levelling it to his sweaty skin with steady hands, all the while calmly praying about their sacrifice of pain. D’Artagnan could no longer form the words to beg them to stop, and once more wordlessly screams as the second nail impales his hand and hammered once, twice- 

Then the doors were flung open and urgent shouts filled the air, and d’Artagnan almost missed the entrance of his friends through the sound of his own tortured cries. He was barely aware of the commotion of bodies in exodus, ushered out by the authority of the musketeer captain and caught like fish in a barrel as they tried in vain to escape. 

D’Artagnan jolted at the feeling of hands on his face, but when he opened his eyes Athos was there, cradling his tear-stained face and saying his name in a broken voice. He pressed their foreheads together, murmuring all the while _you’re safe, it’s going to be okay, I’ve got you_. 

Aramis and Porthos must have appeared at some point, because the ropes around his feet and neck were gone, and they each gently held his arms close to the wood to prevent involuntary damage. Despite everything, d’Artagnan found himself relaxing into the feeling of hands stroking his hair and voices calming him down with soft words of reassurance. 

Another musketeer returned from an errand soon after, bringing with him sturdy pliers and Aramis’ medical bag. The three shared a grim look, knowing what had to be done, and Porthos requested they be left alone for this. Treville gave a nod, corralling the other musketeers out of the room and closing the doors behind them to leave them in peace. 

Aramis gave d’Artagnan laudanum for pain relief, and they waited patiently for it to take effect, all the while doing their best to keep him still and talking him through what was happening. D’Artagnan was glad for the drug, that he wouldn’t have to make his friends feel guilt at causing him more pain. 

The first nail to come out was the one that had only been pushed partway through the flesh, so it was a simple matter to ease it out and quickly clean and bandage the hand to stop it bleeding. 

“You’re lucky the nail isn’t rusty, that would’ve been another problem to deal with,” Aramis informed him, now examining the wound on his other hand. He set his lips in a determined grimace and looked at d’Artagnan, who seemed to be floating on both the medicine and the residual shock and pain of his ordeal. 

“I’m going to pull this one out now, d’Artagnan. Are you ready?” 

D’Artagnan met his eyes, took a deep breath to steady himself, and nodded. 

Since the nail had gone into the wood, it was a difficult task for Aramis to wrench the nail free without damaging the hand in the process, but he persisted with diligent care and the nail came out all of a sudden. D’Artagnan shuddered at the sensation, feeling mostly a grotesque scratching and squelching, and could not hold back the need to vomit that had been plaguing him for a while. Athos rubbed his back soothingly as his wrist was finally untied, and he guided him to sit on the floor away from the puddle of his blood. Aramis finished carefully tending to his injured hand and helped him take some water, before Porthos picked up his drowsy body with infinite gentleness. Together they made their way out of the cursed place, and d’Artagnan drifted off easy knowing he was safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't quote me on the effects of laudanum i didn't do my research properly  
> the crucifixion scene in vikings really stuck in my head so there's the inspiration for this one, i initially thought about jack the ripper's execution style in the ac syndicate dlc, he sort of smashed a giant metal spike through a person's midsection into the ground and it was terrifying and sort of awesome on a first playthrough, but as the name suggests that one's rather more fatal.


	5. day 5 - take me instead

The cold December wind whispers through the trees, bringing with it a sudden wakefulness to the musketeer. 

Aramis blinks, staring up at snow-laden boughs as if woken from a dream, but he’s certain he has been in this place for a long time. Around him, the sounds of the forest are muffled by a thick blanket of snow, and his own breath comes in little white clouds above his face. He feels the frozen earth seeping its chill into his bones, but finds he does not want to move. The boughs above him are frosted white, and sway with a hypnotising rhythm that lulls him into a trance. 

The sudden cawing of a crow is deafening in the near-silence, and Aramis surges upright heart pounding. The bird descends to the forest floor, alighting on a higher point of the uneven ground. It flutters its wings for a moment, performing a little hop and shuffling feathers back into place, and Aramis finds himself transfixed. The bird itself seems nothing out of the ordinary, but he can’t quite shake the uneasy feeling that starts to grow inside of him. 

The bird flits around, clearly searching for something in the ground, and it must find it for it starts digging through the snow with its beak. Aramis watches in dawning horror as the snow falls down from a crest in the ground, and a human face is revealed, jaw frozen in terror and eyes unseeing yet, at the same time, boring straight through Aramis’ soul. He cries out in alarm, a sudden wave of terror taking over him, and he shuffles backwards. 

It is at this point that he begins to notice that the misshapen earth is in fact more dead bodies, and when he crawls back he makes the mistake of putting his hand on something that is _definitely_ not part of the forest floor. He hastily scrabbles away, fighting the urge to be sick. His hands are trembling in shock, and the blood rushing through his ears almost drowns out the cacophony of more crows arriving. He sits, frozen and shaking in fear and from cold, and yet feels his wide eyes drawn to the first body. It is solid and unnaturally posed, as if frozen in the middle of a painful demise, and Aramis wants to cry when he looks at the face long enough for him to realise the truth behind his own terror. 

“Oh God, _Henri_...?” His voice breaks in grief, unwilling to reconcile the once-bright cadet he knew with this darkened, horrific effigy. At once, the memory of the attack comes back to him, and he gasps at the pain he feels flooding his heart. The sorrow turns his insides to stone, and it’s all he can do to remain upright in the face of it. 

The crow stands on the corpse’s shoulder, pecking at the flesh, and Aramis hurries to shoo it away in sudden anger. 

“Get away from him!” He cries, waving his arms, and then turns to frantically wave away the rest of them, all trying to desecrate the dead – _his brothers_. It is no use though, and the birds return to the same place over and over, pecking and cawing. And then, Aramis watches in mounting horror as a hungry bird’s beak pulls back, and pulls _something_ with it that is certainly not flesh. 

The substance trapped between the beak and the corpse is light, silvery, and has a strange definition that likens it to a human face despite the feeling of _wrongness_ that accompanies it. Aramis understands that this is his brothers’ very souls being torn away. 

“No,” he whispers, reaching out a trembling hand, “no, you can’t take him, I don’t want you to.” 

The bird continues tugging without regard, and Aramis becomes incensed, once again flapping away the birds and trying to keep them off their bodies. 

“Leave them _alone_ I said! Get off them!” He’s panicked and frantic, and everywhere he looks those silvery wisps are being dragged up, and he can’t get to them fast enough; his anger is overcome by fear. 

“Stop it!” He exclaims, “not them, please! Spare them!” The crows are raucous, getting louder at his every attempt to stop them. The ghosts are beginning to disappear, carried off quickly by a growing swarm of solid black birds. 

Aramis throws himself down over the last frozen body in desperation, attempting to protect it from those ruthless claws, and he cries out as they shred his back to get to the soul beneath him. 

“Take me instead!” He cries, as the last ghost is plucked from its anchor. He sobs, trying in vain to hold on, but his cold fingers are useless and the phantom merely slips through his grasp. “Take me, _please_ -” 

\--- 

Aramis gasps awake, tears streaming silently down his face and body immobile for a moment, as if he himself were a frozen corpse left out in the dark. 

It takes a moment for him to know whether he’s really awake, whether he’d really just seen his dead brothers-in-arms' souls be physically taken from their bodies, but they are long dead. He remembers that, and lets the adrenaline leave him gradually, working through his grief once more as if it happened only yesterday. 

To his left, Porthos and d’Artagnan lie swaddled under a mound of blankets – one of them snoring softly – and he relaxes a little at the proximity of his brothers, very much alive and well. They had taken a room for the night and pushed two beds together to make one big one in order to conserve heat at night, and they had to conserve heat because... 

Ah, the snow again. Digging up old memories and letting Aramis’ mind twist them into the supernatural. 

A small sound from his right makes his head snap up, and he sees Athos, still sitting in his chair in the corner of the room keeping watch, holding a book but staring at Aramis with some concern. Aramis hastily wipes at his damp eyes, but Athos is not one to look down on another man for his emotions, let alone a brother. He simply takes the candle from his table and places it closer to Aramis beside the bed, enough to drive the shadows away. 

Aramis smiled tiredly in gratitude and snuggled further into the blankets, letting a sleepy d’Artagnan throw an arm about him to steal his warmth. He feels the last of his tension leave his tired body as he drifts off under the comforting watch of his brother to what he hoped was a more peaceful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know there's more than a few savoy takes out there but i wanted to try something a little more supernatural/horror. also it's late so absolutely not been proofread, if there's mistakes just pretend there aren't <3   
> let me know what you think!


	6. day 6 - insomnia

_We refuse to die!_

The phrase echoed in Porthos’ mind as he lay restlessly in bed, staring at the ceiling for the fifth consecutive hour. 

Each time he attempted to close his eyes and fall asleep, the dark transformed into the shadow of a collapsed building around him, and the weight of the blankets became debris. 

The cool touch of his pillow became the ghost of d’Artagnan’s hand, immobile against his own. 

He huffed and sat up, frustrated by his own body. No matter how hard he tried to relax, the scene from earlier that day kept replaying in his head, and his mind attempted again and again to convince him that they were both still buried under rubble and dust. 

He had already lit the candle beside his bed in an attempt to drive back the shadows, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of uneasiness and remaining shock. He hadn’t been able to get rid of it since he thought he was _actually_ going to die only hours before, unable to move and completely powerless to help d’Artagnan only inches away. 

He almost jumped out of his skin when a quiet knock came at his door, having been lost in his thoughts for so long. Hesitantly (for who would be calling at this time of the early morning?) he climbed out of bed and opened the door a crack, only to open it fully in surprise. 

“D’Artagnan?” he blinked, taking in the slight shadows and redness under his eyes - from the dust, he imagined. The boy was fully dressed, and appeared a little anxious. 

“Porthos, I... I’m sorry if I woke you, I saw the light through your window and...” He trailed off uncertainly, but Porthos understood. 

“Can’t sleep?” D’Artagnan let out a breath and nodded, defeated. “Me neither,” said Porthos, and he didn’t need to mention it was due to their shared brush with death. Clearly being almost crushed to death had affected them both just the same. 

“Can I stay with you tonight?” He asked the bigger musketeer, but the words came so hurried that Porthos almost missed them. 

Porthos simply opened the door invitingly, and neither of them bothered to hide their relief. D’Artagnan came inside quickly, but stopped in the middle of the room and seemed lost for a moment, so Porthos took pity. 

“Come on then,” he said, climbing into bed and pointedly leading the blanket folded back, “you didn’t come here to stand up all night, did you?” 

D’Artagnan chuckled at that, and stripped off his leathers and boots before climbing under the covers. They both lay on their backs staring up at the ceiling, still too wired to fall asleep, until the quiet was broken. 

“I just,” d’Artagnan began quietly, “I didn’t want to be alone after, after that. Didn’t want _you_ to be left alone.” 

Porthos remembered the sheer terror he felt at the time, but it wasn’t for himself. He gave himself a moment before rolling over to face the boy beside him. 

“When I reached out to you, back then, you didn’t move. You didn’t answer me, I couldn’t even hear you breathe. I thought... I was so _terrified_ , I was convinced you were dead.” Porthos felt his voice tremble as he spoke; he’d never been very good at hiding his emotions, but then again, there was no need to here. Not with just each other for company, their hearts and souls bared in shared trauma. “I thought, how are we supposed to go on when a whole quarter of ourselves has just left us? How can _I_ go on with the knowledge that I was _right there_ and couldn’t save you, or tell Constance that her husband wouldn’t ever be coming home?” 

D’Artagnan rolled over to face him too, and his eyes and nose had taken on a red hue at the anguish he felt coming from the other. Porthos continues. 

“Every time I close my eyes, I’m back there, and you’re not, and I think I’ve somehow only convinced myself that you’re alive even though-” he stopped there, drawing in a shaky breath, and felt a warm hand weave into his. He looked up and saw d’Artagnan smiling at him. 

“I’m here now, Porthos, and I’m alright. We both are. I’m not going anywhere soon.” 

Porthos sniffled a bit, and they both drew closer and began to relax, the stress of the day overtaken by the comfort that being near one another brings. They don’t sleep for a long time after, but they relish the physical reassurance of their wellbeing, and morning sees them tangled up, each as protective as the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in love with the way porthos shows his emotions in the show (still laughing at athos' 'funeral') but especially when d'art ran into the burning garrison at the end of s3 that shit _hurted_  
>  one of the scenes that really stuck out to me was this one in i think 306, and i was so upset when i first watched it but then they just kind of brushed it off? i wanted more out of that
> 
> anyway here's yet another shameless excuse to write soft men snuggling, i love touch comfort


	7. day 7 - poisoning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> made it to the end of week 1 without falling behind! thank you to everyone who's commented so far i would literally die for you all

Fade to black little drabble with athos going incog to a party dressed up as a comte, going outside with his drink and a man he needs to get information off of, thinking he has the upper hand. The man seems relaxed, and the conversation edges towards the subject he’d been waiting for, then the man’s lips tilt upwards at the sides, and athos realises there’s something wrong, and then he starts to feel a slight tingle in his fingertips. His stomach drops – is that a real burning sensation or just absolute dread? - and he feels sweat start to prick behind his neck and on his palms as the man continues to monologue, but there’s a sharp buzzing in his ears that stops him from listening. His knees finally buckle, and when the glass shatters against the paving slabs nobody comes. The man walks back inside and leaves him, convulsing and struggling to breathe on the ground in the dark, and with nobody to call for help 

Athos knew something was wrong only when it was altogether too late for him. 

He was at a soirée, not in disguise but posing as the comte he’d been raised to be, investigating a possible assassination plot against one of the king’s trusted allies. The crowd of guests milling about the hall had begun to give him a headache, stifling in their facades and blatant two-faced niceties. This was exactly the reason he had been loath to take up the role, and it was only due to copious begging and the promise of as much wine as he wanted when the night was done that he was convinced to dress up in this frilly, foppish and frankly ridiculous outfit. 

The man he was supposed to be looking out for, a greying man by the name of du Chenet, had done nothing of interest for the whole night, nor had he been approached by anybody with seemingly ill intentions. Athos kept an eye on him as he meandered through the party guests, playing up his role of a rich, pompous comte and taking only a couple of glasses of claret, needing to keep his wits about him just in case. 

It had been several hours since the evening began and, with nothing to happen of note and with his patience for the haughty upper class running thin, he made his way to the balcony for a quick breath of fresh air. 

He was joined not long after by another guest, and Athos did his best not to appear as grumpy as he felt behind his carefully constructed aristocratic mask. 

“Lovely night, isn’t it?” the man asked, “though I've no tolerance for this kind of people for very long, always bragging about the size of their coffers and not caring for just _who_ they exploit to get such wealth.” 

Athos put his glass down on the stone railing he was leaning against, and turned to face his new arrival in interest. 

“I’m Jean, by the way. You don’t look like the kind of man to care so much for a man’s title or heritage, no matter what you try to convince yourself of.” Jean had a strange little smile, and Athos felt inclined to give a small one back, if only to make himself feel less awkward. 

“Hubert,” Athos gave back, extending his hand in courtesy. “How could you tell?” 

“Ah, I have a sense for these things.” Jean turned to face the glass doors leading to the illuminated hall, and Athos automatically copied him. “Go to enough posh events and you soon learn to differentiate who is a genuine person, and who just attends to gossip and titter about the cost of their new diamond necklace.” Athos’ lips curled up in slight amusement. 

“You talk like you’re a separate kind than these people, and yet you are here dressed up all the same.” Athos swivelled back around and picked up his wine glass to drink, disappointed that the taste was so altered by the cool of the night air. “What is your business, to be invited here?” 

Jean paused to a long moment, looking at him from the corner of his eye, and Athos felt strangely like he’d missed a step. 

“Oh, our family isn’t quite as prolific as the guests here tonight, we were just quite successful in trade this year.” 

There was another pause here, and Athos felt a slight tingling in his fingertips, thinking perhaps he should head inside soon if the cold was affecting him so. 

“to tell you the truth,” Jean began again, “we weren’t invited at all,” and Athos would’ve questioned that, were it not for the strange burning in his stomach that started to grow more painful by the second. His hands trembled without him knowing why, and the sounds of music and dancing all of a sudden seemed so far away. 

Jean stepped closer as he saw Athos paling, and the malicious grin that spread across his face made everything click in Athos’ mind. There _was_ going to be an assassination tonight – and he would be unable to prevent it. 

Without warning, his knees buckled beneath him, and Athos found himself groaning with a pain that was quickly becoming unbearable, holding onto the stone railing to even stay upright. His glass shattered on the ground when he dropped it, and the shards dug into his knees, red wine spilling in a morbid pool around him as he was powerless to move. 

“You see, we invited ourselves. And I know just who you are, _de la Fére_ , and you’re just as bad as the rest of them. Not only an aristocrat who left your people unprotected, but now you’re a servant to the _King?_ ” Jean shook his head, looking down on Athos, whose breaths were becoming shorter and more laboured by the second, the fire in his veins consuming his thoughts. 

“We will fix the mess you filthy rich and their protectors have made, and when we come for the King, I will not allow you to stand in our way.” 

And with that, Athos was left alone, dragging in wheezing breaths and fighting the darkness creeping into his vision. The last thing he saw was the ornate door closing behind the assassin, and the glint of a concealed weapon as he headed towards his target.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really struggled with this one, i was so close to writing about either food poisoning or an adder bite (because i don't think that's been done) but i didn't want to go too deep into gruesome detail aha
> 
> there isn't a conclusion to this chapter but picture this: the other 3 find him, he gets better and foils the plot, and gets to go home early with a very nice chardonnay


	8. day 8 - 'hey, this is no time to sleep'

Aramis doesn’t know how long he’s been drifting in and out of consciousness for, but the sound of his name being called brings him back to the waking world. 

Before he’s fully aware, he’s reaching for his pistols to protect himself, but the space where they should be at his waist is empty. He doesn’t get the chance to panic though, as the voice registers in his mind as familiar. 

“D’Artagnan?” he croaks, blinking up at the approaching figure through the dark. Night had fallen since he last was awake, and he notes absently that his clothes are sodden despite the lack of rain, and his fingers are beginning to tingle unpleasantly; he hopes it’s only from the cold. 

At the sound of his answering call, the boy hurries over and drops to his knees in the empty street beside him, a wild look in his eyes. 

“Oh God, what happened? You’re bleeding so much!” D’Artagnan’s voice is frantic and out of breath still as he hovers over his reclined body, until he discovers the source of the hurt with a look of horror. 

Aramis laughs despite himself, feeling slightly dazed. 

“Ah yes, that would- that'd be the stab wound.” 

D’Artagnan simply gives him a hard stare that doesn’t cover up the depth of his worry, and sets about doing what he can from what Aramis had taught him. The wound in his abdomen is not too deep Aramis knows, seeing only a small blade carried by his adversaries, but even a shallow wound in the right place – or with enough time – can be devastating. Apparently before he passed out earlier, he’d tried to cover the wound with his sash and done a terrible job of it, so d'Artagnan balls up one clean end of it, stuffing it against the wound, and wraps the rest of it tightly about his waist to keep the pressure on. 

“Ok, I can’t carry you so I’m going to help you up, and you’ll have to just keep on your feet, ok?” D’Artagnan asks, and Aramis does his best to give a confident nod despite how tired he feels. He knows it’s a sure sign of too much blood being lost, so they can’t put it off until he miraculously feels better; they’ll have to both power through. 

With a lot of difficulty due to Aramis’ limp body, and a lot of perseverance, they make it to a fairly balanced yet hunched duo, but at least they are standing. Aramis has to stifle a gasp of pain when he put his arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulder, as the skin of his stomach stretches unpleasantly around the wound, but it is unavoidable. 

“How did you find me?” Aramis asks as they begin to stumble their way back to the garrison. 

“We went looking for you when you didn’t turn up earlier,” d’Artagnan begins, keeping his eyes on the uneven cobbles under their feet. The four of them had agreed to meet that evening to discuss a plan for an upcoming mission, but with the sun going down and Aramis still not appearing, they had grown concerned and left to search. “when we couldn’t find you in your rooms or the garrison we spread further afield. It was sheer luck that we ran into a man who’d seen fight go down between a lone musketeer and five possible thugs-for-hire.” D’Artagnan pauses and looks at Aramis, who's valiantly trying to focus on walking straight and ignoring the buzzing in his ears that almost drowns out his young friend. 

“hmm yes they did say...” Aramis trails of, trying to get his mind to focus on words when all he wanted to do was lay down and sleep, “they were paid by, I think a Monsieur Fournier, they said? That would make sense; his wife was rather pretty, and very much lonely at the time.” 

D’Artagnan refrains from commenting on how often Aramis’ choice of bed partner manages to get him into trouble, and simply readjusts his grip to stop the older musketeer from falling. 

“Athos and Porthos ran into them and had to stay to deal with them, but they’ll be looking for you now. As soon as we get back, I'll send someone out to find them.” 

Aramis nods and does his best to avoid thinking about the nausea that rises at the movement; the strain of vomiting would hurt his stomach even more, and he could already feel the blood seeping warm from the wound and freshly soaking his linens. They make their way down the dark streets, d’Artagnan bearing as much of Aramis’ weight as he could, and both of them listening out for signs of someone to come and finish off the job, just in case they slipped the net, but they encounter no trouble. 

Aramis had been concentrating so much on not being sick that he didn’t realise he’d closed his eyes, and then it was a chain reaction of his body deciding to shut down, letting his knees buckle and body go limp in fatigue. D’Artagnan half-yells in surprise, doing his best to steady their descent, and somewhere at the back of Aramis’ mind he appreciates how hard he’s trying. 

The relief of being horizontal is immense, and he welcomes the lack of cold that unconsciousness brings- 

Until he’s slapped hard in the face and is jolted awake once again. D’Artagnan is leaning over him, concern almost unbearable in his dark eyes, and is talking to him; Aramis tunes back in. 

“This is _no_ time to fall asleep Aramis!” An edge of desperation creeps into his voice, and upset begins to show on his face when Aramis only hums tiredly in response. “We have to get you back, I can’t carry you all the way there!” 

All Aramis can hear is that ringing in his ears, returned louder than before and accompanied by his fast pulse beating inside his head. His limbs feel cold, and he’s only distantly aware of his hand being grabbed, his face patted in a frantic attempt to keep him awake. 

And then, as if in a dream, he feels himself floating up off the cold ground, and then... gently bouncing? His confused mind can’t fully grasp what is happening, but he feels marginally warmer, and thinks he can hear a familiar rumble against the front of his chest, but awareness slips easily from his mind and he knows no more. 

\--- 

The next time he awakes it in more comfort than he was last in, and by the sore itchiness at his belly, he knows his wound has been stitched up already. He opens his eyes and is met with the almost angelic display of a sleeping gascon bathed in morning light, head pillowed against his arms and leant forward against the side of the bed. 

“You gave ‘im quite a scare last night.” 

Aramis carefully doesn’t show how much the sudden voice so close almost gave _him_ quite a scare. 

“Porthos,” he beams groggily, voice not too loud, “good morning to you too.” 

Porthos levels him with an unimpressed stare, evidently still unhappy with him almost dying, but lets his features soften as he feels more relieved than anything in that moment. There are dark shadows under his eyes to match d’Artagnan’s. 

“How you feeling?” 

“Like I just got stabbed?” 

Porthos lets out an involuntary chuckle at the bluntness of his friend. 

“I s’pose I should tell you that you brought this on yourself, but I think Athos has more'n enough words for both of us, when you look less like a stiff breeze could knock you over.” 

Aramis wants to protest that it couldn’t _possibly_ be his fault, that he didn’t hire those thugs, nor could he control how much of a romantic soul he has, but he’s still tired and doesn’t feel much like talking. There's a short but not uncomfortable silence for a moment. 

“He thought you were gonna die. We all did, at one point, but ‘e kept thinking it was his fault, for not finding you fast enough or bringin’ you here quick enough. Stayed awake this whole time, terrified that if he went to sleep you’d be gone.” 

Aramis looks over at d’Artagnan, at once touched and guilty that he caused so much worry in the boy. The line of his shoulders is tense even in his sleep, and Aramis leans over to gently thumb at the frown crease between his brows, wishing he could ease the stress he felt even when resting. 

Porthos eventually has to leave to inform people that he’s awake, and Aramis is left alone in the infirmary save for d’Artagnan, still dozing at the edge of his bed. He considers letting him rest, but decides that sleeping so uncomfortably would be counterproductive, and leans forward to shake him gently awake. 

D’Artagnan’s head snaps upward when he realises where he is and who woke him, and his words are a stream of apologies and happiness that he’s awake at last – apparently, he had been unconscious for a whole two days – and Aramis has to stop him there. 

“D’Artagnan, it’s not your fault, you did the best you could in the situation.” D’Artagnan looks like he’s about to protest again so Aramis holds up a hand pre-emptively. “I swear, if an apology is the next thing to come out of your mouth, I will kick you out of this room.” That shuts him up, and Aramis starts again. “I need to thank you – were it not for you finding me, I surely would have bled out in the street after all. You did all you could to get me back to safety, and look, here I am! Safely here.” He gestured to himself. 

D’Artagnan looks like he wants to dispute it still, so Aramis gasps in pain a little too dramatically, and d’Artagnan, bless him, is all concern again. He hovers, asking whether he needs pain relief, or water, or should he fetch the doctor, and Aramis smiled. 

“No, no I’m alright now. Though, I am quite cold.” He stares at him pointedly, and d’Artagnan makes a fuss about stealing an extra blanket from the spare beds before Aramis gives up with subtlety. He will erase the dark smudges beneath the gascon’s eyes even if he has to play dirty. 

“Come on, get in,” he says, flinging back the covers, “it’s getting cold already.” 

D’Artagnan looks uncertain for all of two seconds, but he knows he’s tired and the bed looks so warm and inviting, and he has to stifle a yawn. He climbs into bed and is immediately latched onto by Aramis in a cheap ploy to make him stay, but by this point he is all too happy to remain where he is. 

“Now stop fussing and go to sleep. I’ll be right here when you wake up.” He says, snuggling under the covers and letting them both enjoy the security of close contact. _I’m not going anywhere_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> much longer than i'd anticipated, and yes porthos did piggyback an unconscious aramis all the way to the garrison
> 
> these chapter endings are becoming a series of d'art climbing into other peoples beds to snuggle, i think since i write at quite late, im subconsciously adding the cosy bits bc i too want to sleep by the end of each chapter


	9. day 9 -buried alive

When Porthos’ witness had failed to show, he should’ve known something more sinister was going on. 

He was waiting near the bridge that marked the edge of the village, sat with his horse for the farmer to arrive, and yet so far the early dawn glow had become long, bright morning rays and there was still no sign of him. He had come alone to speak to the man – by the name of Hubert – yesterday, and had been given the information he’d come looking for. It was enough to give to Treville in order to arrest a certain group of bandits, provided he brought back a witness as well as his own findings. Hubert had readily spoken to him, for the criminals were a dangerous sort and he worried for the safety of the people in the village. 

Armed with the knowledge of the group’s hideout, and with a witness to seal the deal, Porthos arranged to meet Hubert early the next morning to leave for Paris, and then stayed the night in a cosy inn. 

He huffed impatiently, breath forming a little white cloud in the cool winter air. Surely it had gone past courteous time to keep a man waiting? With a slightly peeved look shared with his horse, he left him grazing at the edge of the riverbank, and set off towards the village again. 

Asking around the market stands outside revealed that nobody had seen the man that morning, but he was directed to where Hubert lived alone, having no family. The house was near the western outskirts of the village, and Porthos slowed his approach when he saw the front door ajar but no movement, inside or out. 

He drew his pistol and edged closer, alert for any danger. There were signs of a scuffle in the drag marks in the ground, made soft by the morning dew. Hubert likely wasn’t at his house, then, but Porthos double checked anyway, swiftly opening the door and keeping his pistol raised in preparation, but nothing jumped out, and after a thorough search of the small area he knew Hubert was not at home. Nor was he on the road, since his travel cloak and two small bags were still laid out on the table untouched. 

Cursing, Porthos left the house and decided to follow the tracks. It was easy for the most part: it was obvious that at least three men had walked there from the forest, and on their return had dragged Hubert between two of them, who was clearly unable to walk if the two grooves said anything. When the muddy ground became tall grass and trees grew more frequent, he debated turning back and sending a message to Treville with what he’d learned, just in case something happened to him. However, he reasoned with himself that he wouldn’t go looking for trouble, simply follow the tracks, and find out where his witness was. If he couldn’t get him out of whatever situation had arisen (for it was presumably due to his connection to Porthos that had landed him in it) then he would send for backup. 

He ventured on, following the trail of freshly trodden and overturned leaves and other signs, growing more uneasy as the forest grew denser around him. If Hubert had been taken so far, the group clearly wanted him away from prying ears and eyes, and Porthos felt his hope at finding him relatively unharmed dwindling fast. 

He had some trouble distinguishing human tracks from woodland creatures when the light was gradually blocked out by thick canopy of large, old oaks and clusters of pine, and at least twice he had to double back on himself when the tracks ran out. 

So focussed was he, and so dense was the vegetation, that he neither saw nor heard the malicious approach until it was too late, and with a swift and heavy crack to the back of his head, he fell in a crumple to the forest floor. 

\--- 

When he awoke, it was to complete darkness and such sheer panic that it took his mind a moment to catch up on _why_ he was panicking. He felt dizzy and his breaths were coming fast and shallow, and he couldn’t comprehend his lack of visibility since he was positive his eyes were wide open. Something heavy was pressing him down, and it was very cold and stiff, and gave the air such a pungent aroma that he thought he was going to be sick. 

He opened his mouth to take in deeper breaths, and instantly received a mouthful of dirt that fell from above him, so he hurriedly closed his mouth again and tried to breath steadily through his nose. He felt trapped, could feel tangible pressure on every side of him, and he wished that the reason why was not so apparent, and that this was just a dream, but it was not. 

Porthos had been buried alive. 

It took all his will not to give in to the hysteria he felt building at the realisation, hyper-aware that if he was underground without an exit, he might be consuming the last of his air supply at any moment. He had no idea how long he’d been down there, but judging by the hunger in his stomach it had been a solid few hours at least since he’d been knocked out. The wound on his head throbbed painfully as he remembered the hit, but he did his best to ignore the ache and nausea. 

He felt around him, fingers digging into damp and gritty soil, and was thankful at least that he wasn’t somehow in a coffin. The object above him was strange though, as it felt like fabric but felt stiff and cold, almost squishy in some places like- 

He flinched as hair tickled his face, and as the second horrible realisation of the past few minutes hit him, he had to swallow down a mouthful of bile. The weight above him was in fact a dead body. 

Porthos was by no means squeamish or easily spooked, but this gruesome detail really made his bad day worse. It was with much restraint that he managed to keep his fear in check this far, enough to use his detached level-headedness to configure a way out. 

With an internal apology to the corpse shared his space with, wondering if it used to be Hubert but unable to spare much thought for him, he began to twist them both around so the dead weight was not restraining him, and then he began to dig. 

The earth was not as dense as he’d expected, so it was easy enough to dig his fingers into the soil and pull enough to create a gap, wary that that he didn’t know how deep he was and that if the ground gave way above it would surely kill him. He didn’t have a choice but to dig and hope he wouldn’t be crushed, since he would suffocate to death if he did not. The angle was difficult, as he only had room to lay on his back and dig above which constantly caused debris to fall over his face. He did his best to compact it beneath him and at the foot-end of the impromptu grave, and tried not to consider how long he might have to dig for, or whether he would run out of breath before the end. 

His thoughts spiralled in the complete silence, and he wondered if he died down there, would he ever be found? Would the others ever find out what happened to him? His limbs were tiring quickly, already weak from a probable concussion, and his pace slowed gradually. Would they be ok? Porthos hoped they would, but hoped even more that it wouldn’t come to that. He continued digging. 

All of a sudden, the earth grew lighter, and his hand broke through the surface. He almost cried at the feeling of cold air on his skin, and hurried to dig the rest of himself out of what could have been his grave. 

He flung himself down beside the hold, exhausted and sweaty and covered in grime, and never feeling more thankful for clean air. After a moment to catch his breath, he picked himself up, noticing he was still in the woods but completely alone. Night had fallen, and with it came a cold gust of wind that made him shiver. He didn’t want to push his luck and run into any trouble again, so he quickly stood up and warily made his way through the trees, hoping that he was going in the right direction. 

After perhaps an hour of stumbling, though it felt like more to Porthos’ fatigued body, he heard a bubbling sound that indicated a river nearby, so he followed the sound and then walked beside the river upstream, hoping it would lead him back to his horse. 

Perhaps somebody up there was feeling merciful, because as luck would have it, Porthos soon came upon the little village bridge, and beside it was his ever-faithful horse where he left it. After cautiously approaching the area, and having learnt to be more cautious earlier that day, he surmised that nobody was waiting to spring a trap on him, and made his way to his horse. He donned his heavy black cloak and mounted with only minimal discomfort before setting off under the crescent moon. 

He rode towards Paris with only minimal stops when he was far enough away to be considered safe and unfollowed, once to vomit as his injury protested the continuous jolting of horse-riding, and another time to try and scrub the dirt and tear-tracks from his face in a cold stream. He didn’t much feel like eating lest he bring it back up immediately, but took water to try and alleviate the lingering sick feeling. 

At last, as the sun fell behind hazy evening clouds, Paris came into view, and he held onto his horse with ingrained determination so as not to fall off in relief. 

He arrived at the garrison when darkness truly fell, and stiffly dismounted, resting his head against his mount’s neck to take a few steadying breaths. 

“Porthos?” A voice said softly beside him, and he looked up to see Athos gazing worriedly back at him. Porthos smiled a tired but honest smile. 

“Athos,” he greeted simply, so completely worn out but managing to convey his relief with just a word. 

“What happened?” Athos enquired, giving him a concerned once over. “You look terrible.” He looked like he wanted to make an attempt at humour, but apparently decided against it. 

“I’ll tell you later. I need to talk to the captain.” 

Athos nodded and took Porthos’ horse for him, leaving him free to climb the steps wearily to Treville’s office. He delivered the news succinctly, admitting that his witness was dead but the body would be more than evidence enough, and Treville dismissed him after giving him strict but fond instructions to take care of himself, and that he didn’t want to see him on duty until Aramis himself allowed it. 

Athos was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, and walked him patiently to the infirmary, mentioning he’d sent for Aramis to get a look at his head wound. 

They sat on the edge of a bed together, and Porthos quietly confessed what had happened to him. Athos could tell from his voice how scared he’d really been, saw by the tightness of his eyes that the memory was still haunting him, and wrapped an arm around his shoulder in support. 

For the first time since his attempted murder, Porthos allowed himself to start to relax, sinking into the embrace. He clings to the sound of Athos’ steady breathing and warm skin, the rise and fall of his chest comforting against his side, and he does his best to let these sensations banish the memory of what could well have been his grave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was initially going to write about being buried under a pile of corpses, inspired by the opening of vampyr and also a scene in a plague tale: innocence, but couldn’t figure out where to find a mass grave without introducing the plague and related consequences, so have a slightly less gruesome version of that.
> 
> also i finally got a new keyboard so i can type without thinking half the words im typing will end up missing, but on the other hand i accidentally got blue switch and i sound like a roomful of typewriters  
> 


	10. day 10 - "i'm sorry, i didn't know

The last remnants of spring manifested in a light May shower, pattering on newly-leafy branches and dripping onto Athos, who sat in silence at the base of an isolated oak. 

From his viewpoint, the land dropped away in a gentle slope, and the trees opened up to reveal a vast mural of all of Paris, surrounded by green fields and lush forests. It was breath-taking, even through a filter of misting rain, and the constant ambience lulled him almost into a trance. A soft-spoken voice broke the silence, but Athos had heard him arrive. 

“I didn’t expect to find you all the way out here,” 

He didn’t turn to see him, letting the other musketeer approach and finding he didn’t mind the company. 

“It’s quiet up here,” he said simply, “peaceful. I can take the time to think.” 

Aramis sat himself down beside him on the damp grass, unbothered by the rain as it dripped harmlessly from his wide-brimmed hat. Neither of them spoke for a moment, side by side beneath the great green boughs of the old tree, content to let the sound of nature wash over them. 

“It’s the anniversary of my brother’s death.” He said at last. Despite how he tried to flatten his tone, he was betrayed by the slight tremor in his voice. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Aramis said almost delicately, wondering how he could have missed this in all the years of their friendship. 

“I never said,” Athos replied, still gazing into the distance, “I haven’t been so affected by it in a while but... with all that happened recently, Anne coming back, it just-” he choked on his words, emotions catching up to him unexpectedly. 

“What was his name?” 

There was a pause, and Athos swallowed down a lump before replying. 

“Thomas.” 

Aramis didn’t know what else to say, so decided to not say anything and just be the quiet ear that Athos seemed to need at this moment. They sat in silence once more, and gradually the rain petered out to a slight drizzle. The sun had emerged from behind the clouds, illuminating each droplet and making the wet leaves sparkle. 

“I came here a lot more years ago. Being able to see so far, all of Paris just laid out before me, knowing each of them had known hardships and yet carried on living regardless, it made me think it was possible to move on, that I wasn’t the only person going through such grief. It made me feel less alone.” Athos had a small smile playing at the edge of his lips then, and for the first time turned his head towards Aramis. 

“Now I find that I haven’t been alone in years.” 

Aramis smiled back at him, touched by the words even if he knew them to be true. If Athos hadn’t come to that conclusion himself, Aramis would have spelled it out for him until the man knew, without a doubt, that he has their love. 

“Come on, let’s get back to the others,” he said, standing and brushing off dirt and rain from his leathers. “They’ll be wondering where we are, and I for one would love a hot bath.” 

He held out a hand to Athos and helped him to his feet, and they both set off towards home, leaving behind guilt and grief and spiralling thoughts. Athos would never forget Thomas, but he carried him in his heart, in a place side by side with his three other brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> took a while to think of a story for this one, i wasn't going to write about this kind of emotional hurt (though we don't exactly delve too deep into athos' thoughts anyway) because we don't need anymore sad this year. it ended up less of a whump fill and more of a quiet moment where athos finally realises he can let go of the past
> 
> (it's also less pathetic fallacy and more just me describing in a roundabout way how much i want to just go walk up a mountain, it's been nearly a year since i've been anywhere greener than the local park)  
> the next fills will be much less flowery and more plot driven adventure>peril>comfort


	11. day 11 - hallucinations

It was mid-January, and on the return journey after a successful mission delivering urgent missives, the four musketeers found themselves making camp in the freezing cold, sweeping aside snow to lay down their bedrolls close together beside the fire. 

They had passed through a town earlier that day, but due to the freezing weather many travellers had had to find a place to stay, at least until conditions became less risky. With the inn being full, and the last warm resting place much too far behind them to reach by nightfall, they had no choice but to venture on and hope to find somewhere to stay on the road back to Paris. Unfortunately, their route hadn’t factored in needing shelter other than what they carried, and so were forced to stop in a forest, moderately sheltered from the elements by the trees, and set up before the last light receded. 

D'Artagnan volunteered for first watch that night, unwilling to let Aramis spend the night alone in the snow, and Athos was willing to take over in the early hours to welcome the morning in. The others had dropped off quickly after a hot meal (courtesy of Porthos’ successful snares), and were burrowed beneath blankets and furs and sharing body heat to stave off the wintry chill. The Gascon had chosen a rotting log to perch himself on for the coming hours, the soft wood less likely to leech his heat from him, and was wrapped up in his cloak, wearing Athos’ hat to keep the heat escaping from his head. 

All around the air was still, sounds muffled, and frost-covered trees glowed almost eerily in the moonlight where the warmth of the fire did not reach. An owl hooted nearby, and d’Artagnan shivered, hunching closer to the flames enough that his cheeks turned rosy. The sounds of the forest were a comfort to him, having lived on a farm surrounded by greenery, and he felt relaxed enough with the crackling of the fire that he had to work to keep his eyelids from slipping shut. 

All of a sudden, a voice sounded in the distance, and his head snapped up, instantly alert. 

It must have come from far away, quiet enough that he couldn’t make out any words, but the sound carried far across the snow-blanketed floor and gave a chilling illusion that the voice had whispered from the shadows behind him. 

D’Artagnan felt his skin prickle, and stayed as silent as he could, ears strained for another clue, but none came. Gazing into the darkness beyond their shelter, the twitching light of the fire played upon the white trees, creating ghostly shadows that his eyes tracked in readiness. After a while of waiting for nothing, he chalked it up to some kind of wildlife and turned back to the fire, adding another log to keep them all from freezing. His shoulders didn’t lose their tension though, and he kept a hand on the hilt of his rapier. 

The night drew on, and more than once d’Artagnan had to get up and walk around to keep his fingers and toes from going numb. It was as he made patterns in the stares beyond the trees that he heard the strange sound again. He stiffened, turning immediately to where he thought the source was, and once more found nothing. 

“Who’s there?” His voice sounded loud in his ears, though he knew he was not calling out louder than a murmur. The echo of his own words made him feel all too conspicuous, and he cast a look at his still-sleeping brothers, surprised that they hadn’t roused at the noise. 

There was no answer from the dark for a while, and with perhaps an hour passed and nothing to happen of note, d’Artagnan had resumed his uneventful watch with rising boredom. He took of his weapons belt and set about polishing his blade, having nothing better to do. 

_Help me!_

D'Artagnan startled badly at the plea, heart thumping as he leapt to his feet and looked around wildly, unsheathed sword stretched warily before him. His furs and cleaning cloths fell to his feet, and he stepped over them carefully, edging towards the shadowy trees. 

The voice had sounded like a young girl, terrified, and very close. D’Artagnan put his weapon down, not wanting to scare her off even more, though she did not show herself. 

“Hello?” He called hesitantly, almost not expecting an answer, and was again taken aback by the young voice. 

_Please, I need your help!_

D’Artagnan frowned in concern. 

“Where are you?” He asked the voice, unable to see past the light of the fire. 

_This way, quick!_

The sound of hurried footsteps sounded away from him rapidly, and he worried that the child – possibly injured - might freeze on her own in this weather, so he took off in the direction of the voice without hesitation. 

“Wait!” He cried after the girl, but she was gone, and no trace of her within the trees. 

The light of the fire was blocked out quickly behind him as he steadily wove through the trees. Before his feet the snow was glistening and untouched, and somewhere at the back of his mind he wondered if that should be alarming, but then the voice called again with a _this way, hurry, please_ and he followed it without question. 

The glow of the moon seemed ever blue in the absence of artificial light, and he found he could see quite easily with the pale trees reflecting it. As he walked, his thoughts started to wander, and after each time his mind refocussed it became increasingly harder to stop them slipping away again. His movements slowed to a trudge gradually, yet despite his sluggish limbs he began to notice a weightlessness to his movements, as if he were floating along without his own input. 

The voice continued its haunting encouragements, coaxing him further and further, and he soon forgot why he was following it. 

The trees eventually grew thinner, and the light brighter, and then the air all of a sudden was colder, sharper, unmuffled by the forest and snow. 

D'Artagnan became aware of a panicked voice shouting his name, this time familiar and very much real. He blinked, feeling as if he’d just surfaced from a dream, and found he was no longer sitting by the fire with his friends, nor was he surrounded by trees. His name was called again, and the sheer terror in it had him turning in confusion. 

He didn’t realise that he was standing on darkened ice until it cracked threateningly at his sudden steps, and by then it was too later. He caught a glimpse of three stricken faces before the support beneath his boots disappeared, and he plummeted into icy water. 

The instant shock of freezing water had him gasping on instinct, and murky lake water flooded into his lungs before he could stop it. Panic gripped him, and he thrashed without reason, his cloak tangling in his arms as he desperately clawed for a surface he couldn’t see. 

He felt disoriented, squinting through mud-dark water for any sign of light, and fighting against the weight of his clothes dragging him down and restricting his movements. His lungs ache and he wanted to scream. A dark thought entered his mind, sinking heavy in his stomach, that he might just die here, and his body might not even be found until spring thawed his watery grave. The grief that wrapped around his heart was so painful – though that could have been the shock of cold water in his lungs – and he made one last valiant effort to reach for the solid ice, but his hands met no resistance, and his limbs quickly grew too tired to move, and he felt hope sinking along with his body. 

Suddenly, he felt a tug on his cloak, and he felt himself being pulled through the water before he could think what had ensnared him. Something strong wrapped itself around his chest and dragged his weakly flailing body towards a dim light, and then he was free. He breached the water’s surface spluttering and coughing, unable to draw air through his closed throat, and he was almost unaware of the hands that pulled him fully onto the relative safety of thick ice. 

Together, he and his saviour dragged themselves back towards solid ground, and there he was greeted by more hands, holding him up, touching his face. He wheezed some more, vision going spotty with the lack of air in his tight lungs, and somebody had the good sense to slap him hard a few times on the back. D’Artagnan angled away just quick enough to vomit to the side of himself, expelling the lake water. 

He sagged, exhausted and still breathing with some difficulty, and distantly felt his outer layers being divested. He tried to help, but his limbs were uncooperative and ended up in the way more often than not. Eventually he found himself ensconced in warmth, wrapped up like a very long baby in a thick material that smelled of both Porthos and Athos. He might have chuckled at the imagery if he had the energy. 

He let the sheer fatigue he felt consume him, and drifted in and out of consciousness for an unknown amount of time. He was aware of being carried, soft voices around him that he couldn't focus on properly, and the crunch of snow beneath three sets of boots. 

Once they were back at their camp d’Artagnan was awake and shivering violently, and allowed Aramis to help him change into spare dry clothes with minimal fuss, since his own body was uncoordinated and stiff and wracked with tremors. Porthos shook his wet clothes out and laid them to dry overnight, while Athos stoked the fire to bring it back to life bigger than before. 

The cold night air made d’Artagnan’s skin ache and he went easily into the mound of blankets, joined by the others once they’d stripped down to shirtsleeves, with Porthos’ bulk behind him and Aramis on the other side. Athos took d’Artagnan’s previous seat on the log and set himself up to keep watch for the remainder of their night. D’Artagnan’s hands were taken and rubbed between other hands to encourage warmth, and his shivers didn’t stop but were no longer full-blown shudders. 

“What on earth were you doing out there?” Aramis asked, tone aiming for gentle but not hiding his anger and upset, though he still continued his attempts to warm him. 

D’Artagnan took a moment to consider his answer, more than a little confused himself, before he landed on the truth. 

“There was a girl,” he croaked between shivers, his throat still sore from coughing. “I think. She needed help. Did you find her?” His memory up to his dip in the lake was still hazy, but he remembered the feeling of worry that had pushed him forwards. 

Aramis frowned at him. 

“There was nobody else there, d’Artagnan,” Athos’ spoke from by the fire, “yours were the only tracks we saw.” He looked at Aramis in concern, silently asking whether this illusion was something to do with the gascon’s health somehow. 

D’artagnan simply hummed, too tired to parse his memories for the moment, and tucked his cold face against the warmth of Aramis’ chest. He still felt a tingling pain in his extremities as they gained feeling back, but. The ends of Aramis' hair were cold and wet in sharp comparison, and he realised it must have been him who fished him out of the lake earlier. 

“Thank you for saving me,” he mumbled, and felt the answer more than heard it. 

“Of course,” Aramis replied, as if the alternative could never be considered. 

D’Artagnan began to doze after a while, the comforting lull of Porthos’ deep breathing helping him let go of the tension from shivering for so long, and he let himself relax. 

“I couldn’t lose another brother to the cold.” 

He almost missed Aramis’ whisper pressed into his damp hair, half asleep as he was, though that was perhaps the reason he had spoken at all. He felt guilty for worrying him, especially in such a difficult setting for the older musketeer, but more than anything wished he had something better to say to apologise and put his mind at rest, but he couldn’t fight the pull of sleep for long enough. 

Instead, he curled up closer, letting him know that he’d heard him, and silently promising not to leave if he could help it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't know if parts of this come off as rushed but it's quite late, and this is now the longest chapter of the series at 2100 words!  
> it's Very cold in the room i work in, and i've been consuming at least 7 cups of tea or coffee a day in an effort to keep my drawing hand warm enough to move. some days i feel like i too am camping in the snow


	12. day 12 - "who are you?"

There was a constant drip soaking into Athos’ shoulder from the loose bricks above him, and he thought that that alone had proved to be the worst part of their incarceration so far. 

The four of them had been ambushed on the road, and despite putting up a tremendous fight their enemies had managed to subdue Athos, Aramis, and Porthos. They’d lost sight of d’Artagnan halfway through the scuffle, and since they’d been carted off as soon as they were suitably restrained, but as they travelled the heard the men say that two of them had lost sight of the young one somewhere in the woods, so at least they knew he was still alive. 

They had not suffered at the hands of their captors much, had been given sufficient food and water and hadn’t yet been even _spoken_ to, let alone brutally interrogated as one would expect. A whole three days passed, and the only interesting thing to note was the growing cold Athos felt from his wet sleeve, and Aramis and Porthos’ unending game of _I went to the market and bought_. 

“... a honey cake, new shoes, parsley, a length of pink silk – or was it blue?” 

Athos groaned, almost wishing he could be taken away for questioning if it meant he didn’t have to listen to them still. 

“It’s been days, would you please _kindly_ choose a different game to play?” he begged, tipping his head back against the wall. 

“Oh, goodness why didn’t I think of that? Let me just get out my spare cards.” Said Porthos drily. 

“Sorry Athos, I thought you were asleep. Did you want to go to market too?” Aramis piped up, peering around Porthos to see him. 

Athos grit his teeth. Another drip landed on his shoulder. 

“No.” 

“Ah, s’pose it’s just you and me again then, Porthos. I went to the market and...” 

\--- 

Through the gaps around their cell door, they could see the torches had now been lit, and soon they would have their regularly scheduled evening meal brought to them. They were currently mourning the lack of dry clothes and entertainment of any kind, barring _I went to market_ , which Athos had banned after a further two-day streak before he was driven to throttle one of them with his chains. 

“Could be worse though,” Porthos mused. 

“Hm?” Athos enquired lazily from where he was laid out dozing on the floor. 

“This time we at least know that the cavalry’s on its way.” 

“Oh yes,” Aramis clapped, suddenly reminded of their hope. “D’Artagnan will surely have reached the garrison by now and will be returning in a few days with the full force of the regiment to launch a heroic rescue for us.” 

Athos smiled at the prospect of escape, longing for the comfort of a soft bed and nice wine. 

After a moment, there was the sound of approaching feet from outside the door. 

“Food for the prisoners” a familiar voice said, “captain says I'm to take over from you, go ahead and take the night off.” 

There was a brief thank you, a quiet jangle of keys being handed over, and then the door opened wide to admit d’Artagnan, cheerfully balancing three bowls in his arms. 

“Ha! What did I tell you?” Aramis laughed, delighted to see another friendly face after so long. 

D’Artagnan smiled and put down the three bowls, kneeling and fiddling with the keys in his hand. 

“You didn’t think I’d just abandon you did you?” 

“Of course not, well done lad,” Porthos praised. “You made good time didn’t ya?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“How did you manage to get all the way to Paris and back in just a few days?” 

“Oh, I didn’t go to Paris.” 

Athos looked up sharply. 

“You mean you came here on your _own?_ ” 

“Ah, yes?” D’Artagnan looked a little nervous, trying to project innocence, but was met with a very hard stare. 

“I don’t think I have to tell you what an incredibly _foolish_ idea that is.” Athos was fuming, and the younger musketeer grimaced as he fumbled for the right keys to their shackles. “You could have been killed! Or captured and thrown in here with us, and then we’d _all_ be stuck with no escape plan.” 

“Actually, I wrote a letter and left it with the nice inkeeper who looked after my injuries, said if I wasn’t back by early morning she should send it to the captain.” 

Porthos grinned at the idea. 

“Ah, clever,” said Aramis, nodding, “and those injuries might be?” 

D’Artagnan tried yet another key that didn’t fit, and he cursed in frustration. 

“Uh, just a sprained wrist really, sword arm unfortunately. And a little bump on the head.” Aramis gave him a Look. “A big bump on the head. A hard whack really, if you like, had to sleep it off for a couple of days whether I wanted to or not.” 

“You mean a concussion.” 

D’Artagnan shrugged unapologetically. “I couldn’t waste any more time, I had no way of knowing what they were doing to you.” 

As he was methodically making his way through the ring of keys through trial and error, the door suddenly swung open again, and a guard stood in the doorway looking confused. He was holding three bowls. 

“Who are you?” he asked, after a moment of silence. 

D’Artagnan paused and tried to think fast. 

“Uh, night rotation? I’m new.” 

Porthos held in a snigger while d’Artagnan cringed. 

The man narrowed his eyes, taking in the three full bowls already on the floor, and d’Artagnan’s hands still holding the keys. 

In an instant, both the guard and d’Artagnan drew their weapons, the bowls falling to the floor in a clatter, and they met in a clash of steel. 

As soon as their blades hit, d’Artagnan grunted in pain, clearly not recovered from his wrist injury, and he dropped his sword, instead bringing up his main gauche with his left in time to block the next slash. They exchanged blows, and the guard didn’t notice that he was gradually being backed into a trap until Porthos’ chains wrapped around his neck from behind and he was pulled into a restraining hold. 

D’Artagnan disarmed him with a few short movements, slightly worn-out from his lingering ailments, and levelled his short blade at the still struggling guard. 

“Tell me which _blasted_ key opens these shackles and I shall let you live.” He demanded, holding up the ring of keys. 

The guard picked a dark and chunky one from the rest, and Porthos sent him to sleep as d’Artagnan worked on releasing them. 

“Quickly, I don’t know if someone would have heard that.” 

They slipped through darkened hallways and made it outside, only to have to duck behind a wall as several guards marched past in a hurry, several voices giving orders to find the missing prisoners. 

“Sod it all,” Athos muttered. “What now?” 

There was no way for them to get through the crowds of guards milling about, even d’Artagnan in his stolen uniform might not make it. 

“Wait, I have an idea, don’t go anywhere.” 

D’Artagnan took off without another word, and the others were left hunkering down and hoping they wouldn’t be discovered in the meantime, with only one reclaimed sword between them. 

They didn’t have to wait long however, as d’Artagnan suddenly appeared beside them, out of breath and with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Athos felt a sense of dread. 

“What did you just do?” 

At that moment, a deafening _boom_ reverberated in the night air, and the ground trembled beneath their feet. The sky lit up briefly in a glorious flash of orange, and smoke spewed upwards in a hellish glow. Guards yelled and ran, some towards the explosion and some away, but all of them distracted. 

The four of them took the opportunity to sprint from their hiding place, following d’Artagnan who know where he was going, and completely avoided any altercations with their enemies. 

The slowed to a jog as they reached the treeline, not risking the open road just yet, and Aramis turned back to observe the spectacle of their temporary prison half-crumbling and still burning. He let out a low, impressed whistle. 

“Nice work, pup,” Porthos said, gently slapping his back in shared amazement. 

D'Artagnan grinned. He turned to Athos, who was doing a bad job of concealing his mirth. 

“You did well,” he offered, and d’Artagnan looked like he _glowed_ at the meagre praise, although it could have been the distant light of the fire. Athos huffed and put an arm around his shoulder, giving in to a smile as they ambled to where their horses were tied in the trees. 

“Well, I _was_ expecting half the garrison to turn up and demand our release,” Aramis said, “but as far as dramatic escapes go, that’s got to be one of the best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you'd expect this prompt to lead to some kind of interrogation or memory loss, but there's prompts later on that deal with those kinds of things so i had to think around it.   
> this one's not my usual style at all, but i tried to add more dialogue and keep it light-hearted rather than heavy or sentimental


	13. day 13 - hiding an injury

“I demand that you release my men at once,” Athos said, gripping the man’s arm in a harsh twist behind his back and aiming his pistol at his head, all the while trying to conceal the way his hands trembled. Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan gazed at him in mixed surprise and awe from where they were currently tied up at the base of a tree, relieved to be rescued from this sticky situation. 

The other bandits seemed uncertain about what to do until their leader – currently restrained by Athos – nodded at them to release the three musketeers. None of them were foolish enough to try and fight their way out of the situation, not after Athos had entered their hideout brandishing pistol and rapier with a deadly precision, and took the man in charge as hostage. 

As they began to undo the ropes around his brothers, Athos fought to conceal the fatigue creeping up on him, brought on by exertion and pain, and not a little blood loss. The wound in his side throbbed, but he diligently kept his face devoid of emotion and stood straight, hoping his leathers hid his blood well enough. He may have got this far through sheer skill and determination, but if he was found to be weakened now, they would surely overpower him. 

Now free, the others collected their weapons and came to stand beside him, levelling their own weapons but only in defence; it would be unwise on both sides to start a fight with so many wounded. Athos slowly released the man he was holding, and pushed him forwards, keeping his gun trained on him and eyes peeled for sudden movements. Gradually, they backed away from each other, and as the line of sight was blocked by the trees they turned and hurried back to their horses. 

“You’re hurt,” Aramis began, knowing he was hiding pain by the tightness in his eyes and the way he carried himself differently. 

“Not here,” Athos said, looking over his shoulder just in case. “Let’s get on the road again, we shouldn’t linger.” 

Aramis nodded, and the other two exchanged worried glances but said nothing. They mounted (Athos with some difficulty) and rode out of the trees, making haste to put as much distance behind them as they could before the sun set. 

Aramis was the one to call them to a halt, noting the pale shade of Athos’ skin, and the fact that he seemed to be hunched more in the saddle than before. Athos himself put up no protest, knowing from experience he wouldn’t be able to dissuade Aramis in this mode, and besides he was grateful for a reprieve from his horses’ jolting movements. 

They made camp in a moderately hidden clearing, protected by lush vegetation and close by to a stream, and Aramis immediately manoeuvred him to sit back against a tree before he fell over. Athos went quietly, shutting his eyes for a moment and letting the sounds of his brothers bustling about wash over him. 

He must have dozed, because he came awake to a cold and uncomfortable sensation in his side, and realised Aramis was cleaning his wound. Athos had stuffed his neck scarf against it earlier which helped somewhat to staunch the bleeding, but still left a sticky mess after so long. The cloth was cool and gentle on his irritated skin, and he gracefully accepted the mumbled apology from the marksman before he poured a stinging solution on the wound itself. He had been patched up by the medic enough times to be used to it. 

Porthos and d’Artagnan returned with refilled waterskins and more firewood, and chatted quietly as Aramis started sewing up his skin. Athos didn’t much join in, tired after the events of the day. He let Aramis fuss over him (knowing it was futile not to) and soon found himself drifting off beside the fire, warm and relaxed, and all of them safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very short this one, and not as drastic as the prompt could've taken it. athos is way too smart to hide an injury i think, knowing it puts himself and others at risk (not to mention aramis would eventually find out and have his head) so this is one of the only scenarios in which i think he'd ever do it.


	14. day 14 - "run, don't look back"

Looking back, Aramis couldn’t tell when friendly banter had turned into barbed comments and become a full flown argument. Perhaps he had misspoke when mentioning the court, or maybe Porthos had implied something unsavoury about his choice of bed partners. Regardless of the cause, they soon found themselves trading biting comments and insulting each detail about each other that they ordinarily would not find fault with. 

They were on a mission together, and had snuck into a small Spanish outpost searching for evidence of correspondence from a French courtier that might put the King and Queen at risk. They couldn’t be seen as musketeers for fear of retaliation against France, and as such had removed their uniforms and pauldrons in favour of a simple thieves' disguise. Porthos kept watch by the crack in the door whilst Aramis rummaged through drawers and cabinets, having the ability to read both languages. 

Porthos’ focus was drawn to their argument, and Aramis couldn’t remember what he’d said in the heat of the moment, but it must have been particularly damaging, for the look on Porthos’ face displayed a hurt so clear that Aramis felt his heart clench despite itself, and he paused in his shuffling of papers, knowing he’d gone too far. 

He was never to apologise however, because at that moment a shout came from outside the door, and Porthos swivelled in surprise to see a guard staring back at them with sword drawn, calling for them to identify themselves. Porthos quickly grabbed the back of the man’s head, smashing it against the doorframe between them to knock him out cleanly, but the damage was done. Distant clanging and footsteps signalled the imminent arrival of reinforcements, and Aramis swore, shoving a promising stack of papers in his jacket while Porthos upended the nearest bookcase in front of the door . 

“That won’t hold for long, we need another way out,” he said, eyeing the window doubtfully. 

Aramis thought for a moment. 

“The servant’s passages, there’s bound to be a way out downstairs.” 

They ran through a door at the back of the room that lead to winding spiral stairs, and descended as fast as they could, hearing the pounding on the door behind them. 

The passages were narrow but lit well enough, and they only ran into a couple of stray guards, dispatching them with ease, but they were slowed by each encounter. As they sped past open doorways, more and more voices joined the group behind them, and the sounds of guards chasing them seemed to only grow louder and louder, too close for comfort. 

Aramis’ heart pounded as he chanced a look over his shoulder, and saw a hoard of determined men closing the gap between them, and put on a burst of speed. The flat ground transformed into stairs leading upwards, and as natural light grew brighter at their approach, Aramis felt his heart leap in his chest. They were so close to freedom now! 

And then, his elation was gone in a single moment, and it hurt like a shot to the heart. 

As he flew from the doorway, he turned to make sure Porthos had followed right behind him, and instead found that he’d pulled the barred gate shut in front of him. 

“Porthos, what are you _doing?_ ” he shouted, running back to the gate in confusion. “We have to go _now_!” 

Porthos only shook his head, mouth set in a thin determined line. 

“There’s too many of them,” he said, and as he held the gate shut Aramis could see a tremble in his hand, though from adrenaline or something else it wasn’t clear. The footsteps grew louder. “You know this is the only way, at least on of us can get out of this alive.” 

Aramis watched in horror as Porthos drew the bolts closed across the gate, drawing his sword. 

“ _No,_ Porthos stop, please, we can find another way, we can fight them off together!” He shook the bars desperately, knowing that his pleading was futile. Tears pricked in his eyes at the sudden realisation. 

Torchlight appeared at the bottom of the staircase and rose up swiftly on the stone walls around them, and Porthos brought his pommel down upon the gate in three heavy clangs. The bolts buckled and folded, and the finality of the action sealed his fate. Porthos remained strong, steeled his expression, and his hands stopped trembling as he readied himself for a losing battle. Their eyes met, and Porthos did his best to convey his lack of regret at his actions; he did not want Aramis to carry guilt over his death. 

“Run. And don’t look back,” he said, turning to face his enemies. “ _Run, Aramis! _”__

__And so Aramis, with tears running down his cheeks, had no choice but to do as he said, and he ran. The clang of blades rang loudly in the cool air, until all of a sudden, it didn’t. He did not look back._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im combining days 14 and 15 into a two-parter focused on this pair.  
> i don't honestly believe that they could get into such an argument, after years of knowing each other they would know what not to say, and have aired any grievances long ago, but who knows. the only reason i didn't write out the argument was because i couldn't think of what they might say to each other that wouldn't be totally spiteful and ooc, so it's conveniently lacking in dialogue for the most part.


	15. day 15 - "I didn't mean it"

Aramis could feel d’Artagnan’s concerned gaze boring in the back of his head, but he took no notice. His knee bounced unceasingly, and his hands were clasped tightly above them to disguise their shakiness. He hadn’t been able to eat properly in the past three days, and had lost sleep as a result of his grief, thoughts constantly running through his head at how he’d had to leave his best friend behind, what could be happening to him at that very moment. 

He wondered if he was even still alive. 

The look that Porthos gave him as he fixed his only escape closed and simultaneously sealed his fate all to save him, it made Aramis feel sick inside. In exchange for his life, Aramis had only offered him insults and comments made in anger, and the guilt that he may never be able to apologise, to set things right, was eating him up inside. 

He was broken out of his reverie by the sound of the captain’s door closing and Athos descending the wooden stairs. Aramis looked up hopefully, carefully concealing his inner turmoil with a mask of ease and indifference even though he knew his friends could see right through it. 

“We can go,” Athos said as he approached, “but we have to leave our uniforms behind, and if anything happens Treville cannot help us out of it. We’re on our own.” 

Aramis nodded, having already predicted this, but thankful that they were at least granted leave to go by themselves. He stood up, wiping sweaty palms surreptitiously on his jacket. 

“Shall we leave no then?” He asked, making no effort to hide his impatience – he had wasted precious time by having to return for help and hand the captain the papers they had initially gone for, and was increasingly aware that even as they spoke Porthos could be breathing his last. With no further delay, the three of them mounted up and rode with haste out of Paris. 

\--- 

It was a two-and-a-half-day ride to where Aramis left Porthos, and on the journey he only became more irritated and quick to snap. An uneasy silence descended on the group after the last few attempts at conversation had resulted in dark looks and dramatic huffing, but as they made camp for the second night Athos had to call out the marksman’s lack of self-care. 

“You have to eat something, Aramis,” he said, eyeing the way he picked at his food but consumed very little, gazing distantly into the fire. Dark eyes locked to his own, and apparently it was the last straw for Aramis. 

“How are you so _unaffected_ about this?” He snapped, fury plain on his face as he stood up now. “Don’t you _care_ about Porthos?” 

Athos’ nostrils flared in affront, and he took a breath to calm himself, knowing this outburst wasn’t a true reflection of his friends’ feelings. 

“Of course I care, why do you think we’re here?” He said, keeping his tone carefully level. Aramis appeared not to hear him. 

“Porthos could be _dying_ right now, tortured and alone – if he’s even alive! - and you’re telling me to eat like I can just forget his torment?” He was panting, fists clenched, but Athos wondered just who that anger was directed at. 

“You are _not_ the only one who cares about Porthos!” He retorted, eyes flashing. “If you cared so much about him you’d do well to stop moping about and listen to your body – how do you expect to launch a great rescue when your hands can’t stay steady enough to aim a pistol? Or fight with enough strength to get to him through a wall of enemies? The only thing you’re doing by wallowing in your guilt is making it easy for them to win.” 

Athos’ voice had risen through his tirade, and he made a visible attempt to clear the misplaced emotions from his posture. He too was on edge and worried for Porthos, though he managed to hide it better. Aramis stood opposite the fire, silenced by his words and breathing heavily through the remains of his own frustration. Athos sighed. 

“I understand your impatience - we all love him, and will stop at nothing to get him back. But we’re all exhausted, the horses are tired, and we’ll be no good to him if we attack with our bellies empty and lacking sleep.” He stepped towards Aramis and put a hand on his shoulder, feeling the muscles tense beneath leather. “The best we can do now is rest.” 

All the fight seemed to drain out of Aramis at the softness in his tone, and the undeniable logic. He sagged forwards, forehead resting against his chest as he took deep, ragged breaths, and Athos wound his arms loosely around his shoulders, allowing him peace to let go. D’Artagnan stepped gingerly from the edge of the trees carrying an armful of kindling, and he kept quiet as he fussed with the flames, not wanting to disrupt the moment. 

As the sun finished setting and the last of the warm evening light faded from the trees, the trio made ready for bed. Athos took first watch, d’Artagnan fell asleep almost instantly after a hard day’s ride and volunteered himself for second, knowing Aramis needed the rest more at this point. Aramis, having eaten the last of his meal under Athos’ watchful eye, laid down in his bed roll, but was unable to find sleep for some time. Gazing up at the stars, he remembered the last time he camped with Porthos on their way to the Spanish border, and felt his shame and grief well up inside him. Protected by the cover of darkness, he felt able to finally come clean. 

“We had a terrible argument, and I never had time to apologise,” he confessed quietly, so much so that Athos almost missed it. He tilted his head towards Aramis, letting him know he was listening but not pressing for details. A minute passed before he spoke again. 

“We had an argument, and... I said something truly horrible, something I'd never say if I put even half a _thought_ into it, and when I realised-” he cut off, upset threatening to choke his words. “He looked at me with such _pain_ , Athos, like I’d betrayed everything we’d ever meant to each other.” Tears began to well up in his eyes and he let them fall, hidden by the dark, but the tremble in his voice was unmistakeable. “And then he went and closed the door in front of him, _sacrificed_ himself to save my own damned life - _me_ who had just hurt him irreparably – and now I may never get the chance to apologise, tell him I could never mean it. He’s probably _dead_ and the last things I ever said to him were in anger.” 

Aramis trailed off with a breathless sob, and he curled tighter in to himself, consumed by the memory of abandoning his friend, hearing the signs of fighting stop suddenly, and knowing exactly what that meant. Athos’ steady voice was low, but cut through the night easily. 

“Porthos did what he had to to protect you, because he loved you. You must know that a few words spoken in anger don’t invalidate the years of your friendship so easily? He would not want you to be so overcome by misery like this.” 

Aramis simply shrugged, wiping away stray tears as they itched his cheeks. 

“If I'm miserable it’s because I deserve it.” He muttered. Athos huffed. 

“If you don’t believe me, you can ask him yourself tomorrow,” he said, and sent a look over the fire when he looked to protest. “I don’t believe he’s gone, and you must not give up on him either. If we give up on hope, then what are we really doing here?” 

Aramis felt the pain in his heart recede a little at his brother’s faith. 

“We’ll get him back tomorrow. I’ll do everything I can to make sure he comes home with us.” Aramis said, letting go unspoken the promise of revenge if they found Porthos dead. He settled down to sleep, knowing he’d have to have all his strength the coming day, no matter what came. 

\--- 

They infiltrated the outpost with ease, following the same route as before, and quickly located the bureau on the first floor. The guards in the hallway were knocked out in unison by Athos and d’Artagnan, and Aramis stormed past with a righteous fury and kicked open the wooden doors, predictably finding the weaselly man in charge located inside and with only a few men for protection, and they were easily taken care of by the three of them before alarms were raised. The man tried to make a run for it, but Aramis caught him by the back of his collar and slammed him against the wall with brutal force. 

“Where is he,” he growled in his face, low and threatening, and the man stammered out a reply in Spanish about yet another hidden passageway, eyes darting about in hopes of a saviour. Athos bound his hands, letting Aramis take the lead as they followed the man’s shaky directions through several doors, and they held their collective breath, not knowing what condition their missing fourth would be in. 

At last they came to a locked door, and Aramis fished for the keys from their captive, wordlessly leaving d’Artagnan and Athos to stand guard as he opened the door, sick with dread. It was dark inside, but enough light came in through a grate in the ceiling to illuminate Porthos, lying still and chained in the centre of the room. 

Aramis felt time slow as he took in the numerous cuts and bruises on his shirtless back, and then felt sheer relief as he watched Porthos take in a breath. He ran to him, knees almost buckling as the adrenaline leading up to this moment left him suddenly, turning his limbs to jelly. Porthos stirred at the sound, and blinked groggily awake as he was turned over by warm hands. 

The instant he recognised Aramis’ worried face in the dim light, he relaxed and let a shaky smile spread across his battered face. 

“I knew you’d come find me,” he said, voice rough in what Aramis hoped was merely disuse or dehydration. 

“Of course, _of course_ we did, I could never forgive myself if I left you behind." Aramis took a moment to assess his injuries, concluding that it was nothing irreversible or mortally wounding. He pressed their foreheads together and closed his eyes. 

"Porthos, I'm so sorry for what I said. I didn't mean any of it, I could never hate you." He spoke quietly, as if afraid of the damage he’d done, and afraid of asking forgiveness in case he was denied. 

"I know, it's ok,” Porthos consoled him, resting a hand on the back of his head to show that he forgave him. “I'm alright, we'll be ok." Aramis nearly wept in relief not for the first time that day. 

"You're much too forgiving," he replied, and his eyes were rimmed red but he was smiling for the first time in days. 

They both drew strength from each other's presence, and eventually the four of them made their way out without trouble, reunited at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is light on the comfort and i think a bit rushed at the end but you absolutely know they're gonna look after him so hard
> 
> i forgot to mention yesterday, but it's just past the halfway point now! this is further than i've made it on any inktober before, let alone a chapter a day, which i am much less used to
> 
> also @everyone who comments i love each and every one of you - i don't think i would've gotten this far without your encouragement! hope you enjoy this chapter and have a lovely monday <3


	16. day 16 - broken bone

Ever since he’d bested LaBarge and become a musketeer, the Red Guard had seemed to hold a personal grudge with d’Artagnan, seeing his victory as a humiliation to them all. Unfortunately for him, this resulted in taunts in the street and the occasional fight, and in the case of this particular evening he found himself accosted while walking back alone after night spent drinking with Athos. 

Three red guards appeared, towering and blocking his path with disdain on their faces. D’Artagnan half-heartedly tried to warn them off, but he was ignored as they launched into a fight, citing his win over the Red Guard’s champion as a challenge. Within a few short minutes, and thankful that he hadn’t tried to keep pace with Athos’ wine-drinking, he had performed a tricky manoeuvre and lifted one of the guard’s rapiers from his hand using his own blade, and flung it far enough that it’s landing wasn’t seen. Now facing only two armed adversaries, he let his focus go to them, and consequently was only partially aware of movement from behind him, where the third man had retrieved an impromptu weapon from somewhere in the dark street. 

D’Artagnan swivelled just in time to block a heavy hit from an iron rod, protecting his head with a hastily raised forearm, and felt the blow reverberate horribly through his bones. His main gauche dropped from his left hand and he barely held back a pained cry from the impact, but he didn’t have time to think on it, instead stepping back to put all three of his opponents within his sight. 

“Not so tough without your little friends to back you up, are you?” one of them sneered, emboldened by the hit. 

“Tougher than you apparently, if you’re too cowardly to take me on by yourself,” d’Artagnan retorted, sidestepping an angered swipe to his side. 

And so the taunts flew, and the blows were exchanged. D’artagnan parried, dancing neatly out of the way of a jab that might have skewered him if he were anybody else, but despite his tipsiness he was well-trained enough to hold his own. He surreptitiously kept his left arm close to his body, out of harm’s way, but knew he would have to work harder to wrap the fight up soon. 

With a calculated move born of months of diligent practice, he waited for an opening before swiftly disarming one of the guards, letting it land and kicking it out of the way. After that, it was a relatively easy feat to push the other two back, just enough deliberate cuts to scare them off but not to give reason for revenge. 

As the three fled from the scene d’Artagnan let out a sigh, wiping his almost clean blade on his breeches before sheathing it. His left forearm throbbed dully; he assumed it was just bruising from iron bar, so he was unpleasantly surprised when a sharp pain ran through his arm as he tried to pick up his main gauche, drawing a shocked gasp from him as he dropped the blade again. He clutched the limb to his chest, willing the ache to die down faster as tears sprung to his eyes, but as the adrenaline from the fight left him, the pain only seemed to increase. He scrunched up his eyes, breathing through gritted teeth for a moment as he tried to collect himself. 

After several minutes, he decided the pain was not going anywhere, but still he couldn’t stay there all night. He picked up his sidearm with his uninjured right hand, stowing it safely before he left. He’d aimed to go straight to his new accommodations at the Garrison, having been recently relocated from the Bonacieux household, but halfway there he just knew he would not be able to sleep with such pain, and something did not feel right – bruising did not feel like this. He changed direction towards Aramis’ rooms, hoping his friend wasn’t already asleep. 

As it happened, Aramis was in fact at his own residence, for he answered the door soon after the second time he knocked, hair a wild mess and still pulling up his braces over his shoulders. He blinked groggily at d’Artagnan’s uneasy face, and seemed more awake as he took in his ruffled appearance, and the way he cradled his arm strangely. 

“Please don’t tell me you’ve been duelling,” he said, fixing him with his best _Athos is disappointed_ impersonation, but still ushering him out of the night. 

D’Artagnan tried for an apologetic smile, but ended up in a toothy grimace. 

“Actually, it wasn’t a duel, there were three of them and they certainly didn’t ask me for a second,” d’Artagnan replied, taking a seat when directed. “And most importantly, it wasn’t my fault.” 

“We may need to have the captain do something about this, it’s getting out of hand,” Aramis sighed, running a hand through his mussed curls. “Now, show me that arm of yours. What exactly happened?” 

“Ah, hit with a metal pipe. Hard.” D’Artagnan said, obligingly shrugging out of his jacket and being careful with the sleeve. It seemed every action cause the bones inside to shift, and a very slight grating sound reached their ears in the quiet of the room that made them both cringe. 

“Oh dear,” Aramis tutted, both at the situation and in sympathy. He reached out to gently support d’Artagnan’s forearm, and lightly pressed in the areas in and around the swollen area, apologising softly at the hiss of pain he caused. 

“Well, the good news is we won’t need to set it, but first thing’s first we need to get this swelling down,” he concluded, standing and making to go out of the room, “and then – are you in much pain?” D’Artagnan shook his head, paused, then shrugged a little. “That’s alright, I'll make up something for you anyway, it’ll let you get a good night’s rest.” 

Aramis dipped out of the room, returning with some clean cloths and a small bucket of water, in which he soaked them. After a while, he took them out and, after squeezing excess water out, applied the cool fabric to d’Artagnan’s arm, wrapping it around gently. He chatted aimlessly all the while, telling him what he was doing, talking about anything that came to mind as he went through familiar motions. He stoked the fire in order to brew some tea – willow bark, among a small variety of herbs that d’Artagnan wasn’t too familiar with – and he and d’Artagnan swapped stories and jokes, reminiscing about past missions and training accidents and his and Porthos’ renowned pranks. 

As Aramis tottered about sorting through medical supplies and clinking little jars together, d’Artagnan found himself drinking a bitter tea and relaxing into a light doze, tired from the long night, the alcohol, and the earlier fight. He stirred as Aramis took away the now warm cloth from his darkening arm and applied an ointment for the bruising with tender and sure fingers, before securing the break with a splint and carefully wrapped bandages, soothing him almost absent-mindedly as he worked. 

D’Artagnan finished his tea, and was made to lie back down to rest before he’d even made a move to leave, his polite relinquishing of Aramis’ comfy bed shot down by a stern glare. 

“I’ll not have you running off in to the night and risk undoing all of my tender care,” he said, hands on his hips in an attempt to look intimidating, but he was smiling fondly, now used to the Gascon’s misplaced sense of ‘not wanting to be a bother’. He blew out the remaining candles, having let the fire go down safely enough already, and took off his hastily-donned breeches before carefully lying down beside d’Artagnan, pulling up the blankets for them so he wouldn’t jostle his arm. 

“Thank you,” d’Artagnan said softly, as they had started to drift off. 

Aramis lazily dragged one eye open and smiled. 

“Of course,” he whispered back, closing his eye again and sinking further into the bed. “Now go to sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: i have never broken a bone and i intend to keep it that way


	17. day 17 - field surgery

It was late afternoon on a crisp autumn day, and the four musketeers were riding alongside the forest's edge when the first bolt whizzed past their heads, alerting them to an ambush. 

D’Artagnan and Aramis had been separated from the others soon after the fight began, and had both taken off on foot after some of their attackers as they fled into the forest. The chase lasted for a while, taking them deeper into the forest as they avoided the infrequent volleys of crossbow bolts whizzing past to _thunk_ into the surrounding trees. It was early evening when they had attacked them on the road, and within the trees the light was further dimmed, making it harder to see their quarry. As such, before they decided to strategically retreat, Aramis was taken by surprise by what felt like a punch to the leg when he didn’t dodge fast enough, and felt himself stumble back as the punch suddenly became a sharp pain in his thigh. 

D’Artagnan looked back at him when he grunted in shock and pain, eyes widening in panic, and drew his sword, running back to him to drag him behind the cover of a thick oak trunk. He whispered his name urgently, but Aramis just shook his head and muttered that he was fine, so d’Artagnan took his own loaded pistols and handed them over quietly with a questioning look. Aramis accepted them with a nod and drew his own pistols, seated firmly upright and attempting with little success to hold back the shaking in his hands. They both sat behind the tree in silence – save for Aramis’ unsteady breaths – and as the rustling leaves got closer the younger musketeer jumped out from behind the tree and neatly skewered the first enemy in his path. 

Aramis laid down fire whenever someone came into his line of sight, and dragged himself with difficulty around the tree to see if he could pick off any stragglers, but they were too close to d’Artagnan to risk firing, and he was helpless but to watch him fighting off the four remaining men by himself. Eventually – and predictably, he thought with some pride – d'Artagnan emerged victorious, sweating and breathing heavily, a little roughed up but largely uninjured. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, sheathing his sword as he came over and hovered uncertainly. 

“Well, I wouldn’t class getting shot in the leg as _okay_ , but I’ll live,” he joked, earning a half-hearted glare from the boy. “Sorry, help me up?” 

D’Artagnan obliged, threading Aramis’ arm over his shoulder and hoisting him up from the ground, wary of the bolt protruding from his leg. Aramis did his best to conceal the gasp of pain, and the Gascon kindly pretended not to notice how hard his grip had become on his shoulder. At the first step, Aramis tried to put a little pressure on his bad leg, but immediately discovered what a terrible idea that was, and decided to put as little weight on it as he could. With small and careful movements, the duo slowly started on the bath out of the forest, fortunately marked out by the bolts that had hit the trees as they travelled through initially. 

After perhaps a hundred yards, Aramis’ resolve broke, and his knees buckled beneath him. D'Artagnan hurried to catch him before he hurt himself further, and succeeded in slowing the fall until the marksman was laid carefully on the ground, face pale and sweaty in the limited moonlight, and clutching at his thigh around the wound. 

“This is no use,” he gasped out, having regained his breath after a moment. “I can’t make it far enough on foot to reach the others, and I can’t ride with this in my leg.” 

The last of the day’s light had long disappeared from the trees, and if d’Artagnan left to fetch the others, it may not be possible to find his way back in time. Aramis shuddered to think of bleeding out and unable to protect himself in a forest in the dark and by himself. They decided to sort out the wound and attempt travel again in the morning, with the sun to guide their feet. 

D’Artagnan whistled for the horses, who had followed behind at a safe distance from the fighting, and brought them to their little camp for the night, securing them to the tree. He then set about making a fire, ensuring the wood was dry lest any malicious persons remained nearby to finish the job. He poked at the fire for a while, and Aramis realised he was just stalling. 

“D’artagnan,” he said softly, keeping his voice level despite the chill in the air, “I know you haven’t had to do something like this before, but I can’t do it myself. I need you to stay calm and just follow my instructions, just like when we practice shooting: block out all other distractions.” He motioned him over with an encouraging smile, resting a stained hand against his arm. “I’ll talk you through it, so don’t worry. You’ll be fine, I'm absolutely certain of it.” He beamed up at him, demonstrating his utter faith, and d’Artagnan smiled back, still a little uncertain. 

“I’m the one that’s supposed to be reassuring you, _you’re_ the one with a stick protruding out his body.” He gestured obviously to the bolt, where blood seeped sluggishly into the cloth at its base. 

“Hmm, yes, well, nothing I haven’t dealt with before,” he shrugged, affecting a false confidence for the lad’s benefit. “Right then, if you’re ready?” d’Artagnan nodded. 

Aramis directed him to retrieve a few things from his medic bag; a Spoon of Diocles for extraction, a small jar of ointment to prevent infection, and a sewing kit. He declined pain relief for the moment, needing to be aware enough to guide d’Artagnan through the process, but the boy set some herbs aside for him to take after it was done. He had the needle heated ahead of time and then threaded, and directed him how to clean the metal implement so that it wouldn’t introduce any dirt to the wound. 

Aramis breathed to steady himself for a moment. 

“Now, in a moment I need you to insert that,” he gestured to the Spoon, “into the wound carefully - that’s right squeeze the handle – and when it’s in just, just gently release the pressure and let it open up the flesh around the bolt. And be careful not to jostle it either! It should make it easier to pull out the bolt without causing further damage.” 

D'Artagnan paid attention to each word, looking more nervous than before but doing an admirable job to steel himself in order to help his brother. He nodded, taking up the forceps. 

“As soon as it’s out, use this to stop the bleeding, make sure you put enough pressure on, otherwise I'll start losing blood too fast, and I won’t be able to stay awake long.” Aramis concluded his serious instructions with a warm smile, and said “courage, d’Artagnan. I have faith that you can do this.” 

Emboldened, d’Artagnan took a deep breath, focusing on the task at hand. As the metal was eased into his sore flesh, Aramis had to force himself to hold still, nostrils flaring in attempt to keep himself under control. He felt every movement in a strange, deep ache, and it was indescribably unpleasant, but he kept quiet to let d’Artagnan work. Pain flared up at each nudge to the bolt, but eventually the metal expanded signalling the boy’s success. 

“I’m going to pull it out now, okay?” D’Artagnan asked, giving him a moment to prepare. 

Aramis nodded, eyes closed on instinct, and let out a cry of pain from behind gritted teeth as it was carefully eased out, feeling the metal head scrape horribly against the sides of the wound as it withdrew. When it was finally done, Aramis was panting and shaking more than before, but d’Artagnan had remembered his instructions and dutifully pressed the bandages against the wound. He was lucky that the bolt hadn’t pierced an artery, or he would likely have needed to cauterise it. 

To his credit, d’Artagnan hands were no longer shaking, and his face had set in a determination Aramis knew he himself wore on numerous occasions, when he had to ignore the pain his treatments caused in order to properly help. 

After a while, Aramis spoke up. 

“The blood should be slower now; I think it’s safe for you to begin stitching.” 

D’Artagnan clenched his jaw but said nothing, reaching for the needle and thread. 

Aramis talked him through the right motions, wincing at each tug of the thread, but he did remarkably well, and soon the wound was closed. He applied some of the ointment for fighting off infection, and then wrapped it securely with clean bandages. 

After it was all finally done, they each rinsed their hands with a little water to remove the tacky blood, and d’Artagnan made Aramis drink some, as he remembered from previous missions how important fluid was for repairing blood loss. Aramis leaned back on a tree, tipping his head back against the bark and still catching his breath, while d'Artagnan slumped onto the ground, abruptly releasing all the tension he'd carried while working. 

“We’ll make a medic out of you yet,” Aramis grinned, ruffling d’Artagnan’s hair with a tired arm. “You did well today. I’m proud of you – I'm sure the others will be as well, once they hear of your heroic rescue of me.” 

D’Artagnan smiled abashedly, taking the praise happily. They chatted quietly into the night, sharing rations and a handful of blackberries d’Artagnan found nearby, keeping each other’s spirits up after their trying day. As Aramis slept to recover from his wound, d’Artagnan stayed awake, diligently keeping watch until the sun greeted them come morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aramis is always the one treating other people, but since i read this prompt at the start i've wanted to swap it so he has to talk someone else through doing his usual job.  
> i did some research but i'm sure this is mostly nonsense since i didn't read up hugely thoroughly, but it worked for the idea that someone _had_ to do surgery on him rather than simply ride back to a professional, and i wanted that person to be a very inexperienced d'artagnan. i love the idea that aramis just starts teaching him on their missions, so he becomes the team's backup medic.


	18. day 18 - "i can't see"

With an almighty crash, Porthos kicked in the barricaded door to their quarry’s hideout and stepped inside swiftly, holding up his pistols in preparation and allowing Aramis, Athos and d’Artagnan to file in behind him, weapons all at the ready. When the dust settled, and with the light of the broken door streaming in, the four of them realised that the room was, in fact, empty. 

“Are they not here then?” d’Artagnan inquired after a moment’s pause. 

“Nah, they’re ‘ere – why would they barricade the door if they had nothin’ to hide?” Porthos stepped further into the room, 

“Look, fire’s still lit. That log’s barely been burnt,” Aramis added, nodding to the far side of the room, pistol still raised. 

“They must still be here,” Athos concurred, tipping a closet door open with his boot, “still lurking about somewhere.” 

As if on command, the ceiling above them creaked audibly, and four heads snapped up. Wordlessly, Athos pointed towards the door leading to the stairs and near-silently started towards it. As he made it to the doorway, a distant and muffled bang alerted them to a different doorway leading into the corridor. Athos looked back, and wordlessly Aramis and Porthos nodded at him and broke off to investigate in that direction, hurrying now in case they lost the cause of the sound. 

The corridor took them past several empty rooms down a set of stairs, and broke off into two further passageways. Aramis chose the left, leaving Porthos for the right. The natural light had faded by this point, having travelled down past ground level, and Porthos squinted to make out which set of shadows could potentially be a threat. 

He crept into a room at the end of the passage, unlit by the only torch on that level, and took note of a shape that looked out of place with the rest of the room. Before he could reach out to prod it with his pistol, there was a sudden bang and a bright flash before his eyes. 

White obscured his vision completely, burning his retinas, and he hurried to close his eyes, still reeling from the shock as the white faded to become a sickening menagerie of vibrant, swirling colours. 

He felt the air move in front of his face right before he felt the familiar _wham_ of a solid punch to the face, and he struggled to find his balance as his head tipped back at the force. He roared, blindly raised his pistol and fired where he thought the sound was coming from, but was at a disadvantage and completely missed his target. He swung his arms out wide, catching fabric between his fingertips and grasping it firm to drag the man in close before delivering a swift punch to the gut. 

Satisfyingly, the hit landed and the man groaned, but suddenly there were footsteps running towards him and he was tackled to the floor, not being able to dodge effectively, and he landed with a tangle of angry, flailing limbs above him. He tried to wrap his arms around the man to restrain him for when his brothers arrived, but he was still blind and disorientated, and as the man began to rain blows down upon him he couldn’t do better than hope to protect himself, keeping his arms protectively locked in front of his already bruised face. 

The attack didn’t last for very long, and all of a sudden the man’s weight disappeared, along with the second man’s shuffling, and Porthos found himself alone. His ears rang as he strained to hear anything in the room to make sure he was actually alone, and he cautiously sat up, keeping his movements quiet in case he missed anything. He was blinking furiously, eyes wide but still unseeing, and could feel a myriad of bruises on his upper body, not to mention the wetness on his face that must have come from the first punch to his nose. He got to his feet unsteadily, bracing himself with a hand on the wall, and heard nothing but his own breathing and the blood pounding in his ears. 

Seconds later, he began to hear quiet footsteps approaching hurriedly, and he prepared himself as best he could for his enemies’ return, sticking to hand combat rather than risk catching his sword on the wall. The sound of boots on the wooden flood came closer, and as they turned into the room he was still in, Porthos met them head on, aiming a punch where he estimated head height with an ease born from years of practice. 

The body stumbled back with a cry of pain that was, unfortunately, familiar. 

“Aramis?” 

“Porthos, what was that for?” Aramis’ indignant voice came, slightly muffled from what was probably his own hand. “Would’ve thought you could recognise me by now, even in the dark.” 

Porthos huffed out a laugh despite the situation, relieved to at least hear a friendly voice. He was glad not to be by himself in his still vulnerable state. 

“Sorry, didn’t see you there.” He paused. “Actually, still can’t see at all. They used a flashbang, took me by surprise.” 

He heard Aramis step closer and let him, feeling cool fingers trace the sore part of his face. 

“Ah, well, that should fade soon enough, but we should stay here while your vision comes back. You can’t fight what you can’t see.” 

“I’m fairly good at shootin’ blindfolded, as a matter o’ fact.” 

“Fair enough,” Aramis chuckled, “but as your personal doctor I advise you not to go charging after criminals when a well-placed doorway could knock you out.” 

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it.” 

“Good. Are you hurt much?” Aramis had tucked a handkerchief into his hand to hold against his nose, and they sat down to wait for Porthos’ eyes to adjust. 

“Not much, jus’ bruises. Nothin’ I can’t handle.” 

They sat quietly for a while, Aramis pressed close to his shoulder to both help Porthos’ balance, and wordlessly reassure him of his presence. 

After several minutes, Porthos’ hazy vision began to sharpen itself to blurry shapes, though the colours felt distorted. 

“Right, time to go I think,” Porthos said, slapping his knees and standing up, offering a hand to Aramis. 

“How’s your vision?” Aramis asked, brushing himself down. 

“Well enough. I’m ready to go settle the score,” he said, retrieving his pistol from where it had fallen. They made their way upstairs to regroup with the others, only this time, they decided to stick together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a dramatised depiction of what it feels like to look at your phone in the middle of the night


	19. day 19 - sleep deprivation

_You must stay awake – you cannot afford to sleep now. Stay alert. At least until help comes, just hold on until then._

Athos keeps these thoughts in mind as he forces himself to keep watch, denying himself rest each time his head starts to droop against his will. His eyelids are leaden, slipping over his vision before he realises, and it is a tiring, ongoing fight to focus on his surroundings, keep his senses aware of any movement, any sound around them. 

D’Artagnan lies still on the ground beside him, unmoved since Athos wearily placed him there several hours ago. He’s tried to get him to drink water, but it dribbles past his lips uselessly, rendered insensible due to the heavy crack to his skull that gave him the concussion. Athos had managed to drag them both this far after days of imprisonment, but he is weak and tired from the escape, and their only hope now is that their brothers will come to find them before their enemies do. 

He didn’t light a fire this night, nor the night previously, wary of leaving tracks or giving away their position with the smoke, and the cold is beginning to get to him. He pulls up the blanket over his slumbering friend to keep him warm, despite his own numbing fingertips – he has to be ready at any moment. 

Dawn heralds a new day, the third morning since their escape, and Athos presses on, lifting the insensate Gason to his back and stumbling forwards, always moving, putting as much distance between themselves and their prison as he could. 

His steps are heavy and clumsy, and more than once he almost overbalances with his precious cargo, but sheer determination drives him in lieu of any energy, and he always rights himself. The midday sun is hell oh his already sweaty body, and his head pounds in time with his racing heart making his already sickly stomach turn. Despite taking frequent breaks he feels himself try to succumb to today's fatigue, compounded with the exertion of previous days and precious little rest to recover. He ignores the signs and continues walking. 

D’Artagnan’s dead weight on his back makes his limbs tremble with exhaustion after mere hours of travel, but he pushes his legs nonetheless, one step in front of the other. Sweat drips off his nose, his ears ring, and at times his vision blackens completely, so he stops for a moment to regain breath, and each time it is harder to start moving again than the last. 

He is both frustrated and grateful when evening comes and he is forced to stop, unwilling to risk tripping on a root in the dark and injuring them further. But with precious little progress made in their journey, Athos worries that they will soon be caught up, and he shudders to think of what will become of them when it happens. 

D’Artagnan wakes up in the night, enough to take some water Athos brings from the stream in cupped hands, and eat some of the berries Athos had foraged on their route. He mumbles a few words, asking where they are, answering questions about how he feels, and Athos feels hope rekindle with the sound of a familiar voice after days of silence, and is encouraged by his momentary wakefulness. The boy shivers, and Athos relents and builds a small fire – they could both use the comfort. 

The night brings with it the usual challenges, and he struggles against the pull of sleep desperately, willing himself to keep watch so that they aren’t taken by surprise again. Countless times he catches himself slipping off with his eyes still open, and reprimands his carelessness each time. In the early hours, while focusing so much on staying awake that he forgets to be aware of his surroundings, a twig snaps, and he instantly draws his sword, heart pounding, only to catch the tail-end of a fox slipping back into the darkness. His vision blackens over after the quick movement to stand up, and he finds himself kneeling on the ground in the next moment, catching his breath and confused about how he ended up there. He is alert for the rest of the night, and relieved when pale light seeps through the trees at last – he is much less likely to fall asleep while moving. 

When the light is brighter and Athos has splashed his face twice to rejuvenate himself, d’Artagnan stirs with a groan, and Athos gently eases him up, helping him to the water’s edge too. With both of them somewhat able to walk together, each supporting the other, they begin their journey anew. 

Numerous times, Athos thinks he hears voices, and he halts them silently, readying himself for a battle, but nothing appears. He remains vigilant, eyes and ears pricked but nerves increasingly frazzled as blurred trees and bushes seem to form odd shapes around them, and he has to fight not to jump at his own shadow. His legs shake under their combined weight, straining to move despite days of unending hard work, and numbness creeps into his fingertips despite the warmth of the sun and the sweat on his brow. The urge to collapse and succumb to exhaustion is unbearable, but he is ruthlessly determined to at least stay upright, wherein lies half the fight. 

Not a quarter into the day, and Athos’ knees buckle for what might be the last time. D’Artagnan had been gradually becoming a heavier weight at his side, his drowsiness and nausea warring with his need to keep up with Athos, but eventually his own injuries had won out, and Athos could no longer support the both of them. They collapse ungracefully on the leafy ground, and Athos takes a while before he can summon the effort to roll himself away and belatedly make sure d’Artagnan is breathing properly and hasn’t damaged his head further in the fall. 

The vegetation around him distorts sickeningly as Athos looks up to the sky, 

They have no choice now, he thinks grimly as he loses his battle over sleep; they just have to hope that they are found by friends before foes. 

\--- 

Voices creep into Athos subconsciousness, and he frowns, wondering if he’s imagining them again. His limbs feel heavy, and his head aches terribly, but the worst of his pain comes from his empty stomach, hunger gnawing at his very insides. The voices sharpen as he surges towards consciousness, suddenly remembering the danger he and d’Artagnan were in previously, and he is upright before his vision has even cleared, heart already pounding in anticipation of a fight as he goes to stand up- 

Immediately the blood rushes to his head, buzzing obscuring his senses for a moment as his taxed body tries to adjust to sudden movement, and he stumbles, losing his sense of gravity in a nauseating moment of senselessness. When the darkness recedes from his vision and his fingers and feet tingle unpleasantly, he notices a pair of arms wrapped around him, preventing his descent, and he instinctively thrashes. He doesn’t want to give in to his captors again without a fight, but the arms tighten slightly and a voice rumbles in his ear, and all of a sudden he’s in the garrison infirmary, and Porthos is murmuring his name, telling him to calm down, reassuring him that he’s safe. 

Athos flounders for a moment, taken aback by the situation he is in that so contrasted his days in the wilderness, and after a moment the most urgent thought comes to his head. 

“D’Artagnan?” he croaks through a disused voice, aiming the question at Aramis who is standing not quite at the side of his bed, not wanting to crowd him. 

“‘m right here,” a tired voice mumbles from his left, and Athos does _not_ startle at the sudden voice. His head snaps towards d’Artagnan, reclined against a stack of pillows in bed, and looking like he’d just woken up. Athos sighs in relief, sagging in Porthos’ supportive embrace, and then stumbles over gracelessly to sit on the side of the Gascon’s bed. 

Aramis pours a cup of water for him, and Athos takes it with still-shaking hands, grateful for the cool liquid to soothe his parched throat. D'Artagnan looks much better, his head is wrapped in a clean bandage and he has regained what colour he’d lost, but still the older musketeer wants to be sure. 

“How are you feeling?” Atos asks, gazing into big brown eyes to see if the concussion somehow remained. He's startled a bit when d’Artagnan laughs, but smiles himself at the happy expression. 

“I should be asking you that, you slept for two whole days!” Athos’ eyebrows shoot up, but he can’t say he’s particularly surprised, not after the sheer exhaustion he’d been battling by the end. “I’ll be fine, just need a bit of rest and no strenuous activities.” 

There's a pause, and Athos takes another sip of water, pacing himself after days of little sustenance. 

“i thought... by the end, I couldn’t stay awake any longer.” Athos speaks quietly, gaze dropping to the blanket beneath his hand as he continued. “I thought if he came back, he’d find us both and I’d be unable to protect you. He could have killed us both and I would-” he stops at the feeling of d’Artagnan’s calloused hand wrapping around his own, and he looks up through strangely watery eyes. 

“I’m going to stop you right there, Athos,” d’Artagnan says tightening his grip slightly and holding his gaze firmly. “I’m only alive because of you, if we’d stayed there any longer I'm sure we both would have died. You went above and beyond what any man could expect of himself, all the while lugging around my dead weight, and you kept us safe all that time.” 

D'Artagnan leans forward and draws Athos in with a hand around the back of his neck, and he presses their foreheads together in a tender moment, conveying all unsaid emotions with ease. 

“Thank you, Athos,” he says softly, “you can rest now.” 

Behind him, Aramis claps his hands together with a warm smile. 

“I think that’s a wonderful idea, Athos, off to bed with you.” He ushers him towards his own bed with shooing motions, retrieving the cup and placing it on a table so Athos can obediently settle back down. He lets Porthos tuck him in only because he’s still so tired that he couldn’t protest if he wanted to. 

Aramis makes him eat some porridge and drink another cup of water, both of which Athos consumes ravenously when it smothers the ache in his belly, before he lets him finally drift off into blissful rest. This time when Athos sleeps, he doesn’t need to worry about the dangers chasing them, because he has his brothers to watch his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had a vague idea about this one, struggled with how to start, and from the second paragraphs it all just poured out in an absolute stream of consciousness. the epilogue wasn't supposed to exist let alone be a whole second half, but there you go  
> -based loosely on the time i was way too ill to sleep more than a couple hours in a whole four day period, then ate a whole box of jacob's on the fifth


	20. day 20 - betrayal

D’Artagnan was sitting by himself at the inseparables’ unofficial table in the garrison, picking at his evening meal while waiting for his friends to return from their last mission, when Pierre came rushing in through the gates. He was panting harshly from his run, and even in the dim torchlight d’Artagnan could see the light sheen of sweat on his face, enhancing his worried expression. 

“Pierre, what’s wrong?” D’Artagnan hurried to pass him a cup of water, waiting for the cadet to catch his breath to explain his harried state. 

The boy drank gratefully, resting his hands on his knees for a moment before straightening. 

“It’s Athos and the others, they’re in trouble,” he gasped, laying a hand on the Gascon’s shoulder to convey the urgency of his message. “I saw it from a distance, but there were too many of them and I couldn’t help, so I came to find you – we have to go!” He tugged on his doublet and d’Artagnan went with it before stopping. 

“Shouldn’t we get reinforcements?” He asked, thinking about the dire situation Pierre had described. Treville was on duty at the palace with a few men, and there might be some musketeers still milling about, but considering the late hour most would be on guard posts or have gone home. 

“There’s no time!” Pierre turned and started back towards the street, clearly frustrated and on edge, and so d’Artagnan followed, his own impatience and concern for his brothers winning out. 

They ran through the streets together, and the cadet didn’t shed any more light on the situation, conserving his breath for his second journey across the city. D’Artagnan wondered what exactly had happened that bested the three best men in the regiment, and hoped he was able to get them out of whatever trouble had caught up to them. 

As they turned into yet another darkened alley, d’Artagnan suddenly felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and he turned just in time to duck under the hefty swing of a club that would have hit him square in the face. He shouted in surprise and drew his sword, backing up a little to put some distance between himself and his attacker. He glanced over his shoulder to check that Pierre was alright, and swore when he saw three more shadows approaching from the other end of the alley, and Pierre was standing still, unarmed and watching him. 

“Behind you!” D’Artagnan warned, keeping an eye on the big man in front of himself. “Pierre draw your sword!” 

The cadet did not move and he swore again – this was no time to freeze! The man with the club advanced and swung again, and d’Artagnan dodged to the side before bringing his sword up in an arc, slicing at his torso, and the man backed off with an angered cry. There was the sound of fabric behind him, and d’Artagnan assumed Pierre had finally pulled himself together enough to act, but he was thoroughly surprised when he felt an arm suddenly lock around his throat, and another hand grip his sword arm, squeezing in an attempt to make him drop his blade. 

The air was stolen from his lungs, and d’Artagnan’s head began to pound at the constriction, black spots appearing in his vision. He was forced to drop his sword, but he let go of the arm around his throat with his left hand and instead took his main gauche from its scabbard, bringing it down in a sudden movement into the leg of the man behind him. The grip on his neck abruptly loosened and disappeared with a pained cry, and d’Artagnan pushed himself away from the man, putting his back to the wall and holding out his small blade protectively. 

“Stop!” cried a voice from his left, and d’Artagnan looked over when he saw Pierre, wide eyed and frozen in the hold of a man with a pistol to his head. 

“Make another move and I'll blow his brains out,” growled the man, shaking the cadet threateningly. 

D’Artagnan narrowed his eyes, but eventually raised his hands in surrender, not fighting against the hands that swiftly disarmed him and tied his hands behind his back. One of the men drove a fist into his stomach in retribution for his own wounds, and d’Artagnan dropped to his knees, wheezing for breath. 

He looked up after he was sure he could keep in the contents of his stomach, concerned for Pierre, but the boy had stepped away from the man who’d restrained him. He seemed unharmed and completely at ease, grinning in triumph, and d’Artagnan felt dread settle within him when he realised he’d been betrayed by his own brother-in-arms. 

“You planned this,” he accused. “Was it all a lie?” 

“Only some of it; your friends were never in any danger here, but I really do want to be a musketeer. I just needed you out of the way, and these men were only too happy to teach a musketeer a lesson.” Pierre stepped closer with a slight sneer crossing his face. “You’re just a farm boy who got too big for his boots, and yet you still managed to get the attention of the King himself, but without you around to show off, maybe he’ll finally be able to see where the _real_ quality lies.” 

D’Artagnan spat in disgust, levelling a glare at the coward standing before him. 

“You’ll never make a true musketeer; you don’t have the guts for it. A _real_ musketeer would never betray his own.” 

Pierre snarled in anger and kicked out at him, catching d’Artagnan painfully in the ribs, but he didn’t give him the satisfaction of breaking his composure. He stepped back, straightening his jacket, and handed a clinking bag to one of the men. 

“A pleasure doing business with you,” he said, turning to walk out of the alley. 

“And with you, monsieur,” the man said, a grin breaking across his face, and as Pierre turned his back to him, the man withdrew his sword silently and, without hesitation, speared the boy through his back, covering his face with his hand to stop his dying scream. He lowered the boy to the ground, retrieving his sword, and then two men dragged him to the side of the alleyway, concealing the body with some tarpaulin and loose crates. D’Artagnan was shocked at the sudden, cowardly manoeuvre, but felt little remorse for the boy who had so easily sold d’Artagnan for his own gain. 

The apparent leader wiped his blade clean on d’Artagnan’s sleeve carelessly before sheathing it, and fixed him with a dark look. 

“It was musketeers,” he spat the word, “that caused the death of some of our gang not half a month ago.” D’Artagnan remembered an incident around that time and frowned, thinking they had successfully rounded up the whole gang to face justice before the factory had caught fire. 

He stepped forwards again and leaned down, foul breath turning d’Artagnan’s insides. “That idiot boy forgot he was _also_ one of you, but since he’s new he deserved only a quick death. You, however,” and d’Artagnan felt ice in his veins as the man’s hateful gaze bored deep into his own, “I saw you there, you didn’t spare a thought to those left inside, those you let _burn!_ So, now I’m going to make you feel the same fear that my friends felt before they died.” 

D’Artagnan had a horrible feeling that he knew just what his fate would be, and he decided in a split second that it was now or never. He head-butted the man in front of him, feeling the nose crack beneath his forehead, and he jumped to his feet, bursting past one of the men standing in the way of his freedom. 

With his hands tied behind his back, he couldn’t fight, and only hoped that his legs would carry him fast enough to get help. Footsteps pounded on the ground behind him, and he only made it to the end of the alleyway before a heavy weight crashed into him, and he went flying to the ground. His torso and head hit the stone painfully without his hands to catch his fall, and the added weight of a man crushing his torso forced the air out of his lungs. He tried to wriggle his way out, but the hands clutching his clothing prevented his escape, and a moment later he heard a crack resound through his head, accompanied by a blunt aching pain, and everything went black. 

\--- 

Porthos bid farewell to his brothers as they departed from Treville’s office that night, after delivering their report to him once they returned from their mission. He thought it strange that d’Artagnan had not greeted them as he usually did when they were on separate missions, but he supposed he couldn’t expect him to wait every night, after all he had a life outside of himself, Aramis, and Athos. Perhaps he was just babying him too much, being the youngest of the group, and should take this as a sign that he should stop trying to keep tabs on his every move. D’Artagnan was a grown lad, and could take care of himself. 

He walked back to his rooms, tired after their long assignment, and was not two streets away when he was surprised by the pattering of little feet fast approaching him. 

“Monsieur Porthos!” came a small voice, and Porthos peered into the night to see a small pale face looking back at him. 

“Luc?” he asked, approaching the shadow with a friendly but confused smile. He took in his nervous posture and heavy breathing, and crouched, reaching out a hand to steady him. “What’s wrong?” 

“s’your friend, the younger one, ‘e got attacked in the street by a gang and took away! They killed the other in uniform one too, but I don’t think ‘e was no good, he kicked your friend,” the boy said in a rush, though he’d caught his breath. 

Porthos was instantly alert, knowing Luc must have been talking about d’Artagnan. 

“Can you tell me where they were?” 

Moments later, Porthos was rushing back to catch Aramis and Athos, chatting together en route to their own apartments. 

“D’Artagnan’s in trouble, I’ll explain on the way,” he said, and immediately their faces turned serious, and they followed without hesitation. 

As they drew close to the location Luc had recited, the scent of woodsmoke began to fill the air, and a faint glow bounced off the houses a couple of streets over. The sight filled Porthos with a sick feeling, and he quickened his pace, hoping against hope that his little brother wasn’t trapped within the blaze. 

Another turn, and Porthos found himself face to face with a big brute of a man, and he barrelled straight into him, seeing him match the description that Luc gave. The man fell down, and quickly rolled out of the way of further damage when he regained his wits enough to take in the mountain of fury staring him down. Three more men crowded round at the commotion, and Aramis drew his pistols, aiming with a quiet rage at the oncoming fight, taking out one man with deadly accuracy before he could draw his sword, and shooting another in the foot. One man remained, easily taken care of by Porthos’ schiavona, and then another appeared from around the corner of a separate building, blade already at the ready. He grinned maliciously as he sighted their pauldrons. 

“You’ll never get to him in time,” he gloated, “the fire will have spread too far by now, he’ll pay for what he did, as will y-” 

Athos thrust his blade into his gut before the sentence could be finished, and the man crumpled to a heap at his feet. Death was certain, but it would be a slow and painful one, though none of them could stay to watch. 

They ran towards the flames, hope dwindling, and Aramis looked around desperately for a well, a bucket, any water that could help them, but came up empty. Porthos thought fast, and poured the remains of his waterskin onto his bandana, tying it around his face before charging into the front door through the flames, desperate to reach d’Artagnan in time. 

He broke through the wood with an almighty crash, already weakened by the flames licking at it, and raced through the first floor, praying to find the lad alive – any other outcome and he could not bear the thought. The smoke rolled across the ceiling in thick, dark waves, and the scent instantly made his eyes water. His throat constricted with the force of the heat even as he dodged eager flames, and yet he pushed himself further, calling out for his brother through incessant bouts of coughing. 

The first two rooms were empty, and the limited time he could spend searching was getting shorter by the second – his vision was already becoming spotted and he’d had to extinguish flames that jumped to his uniform twice already. The third door was partially barricaded, and he shoved his shoulder against it once, twice, feeling the force of his weight bruise painfully, and after a third time, the door shifted open to reveal d’Artagnan, unconscious and laying on the floor, still tied to a chair. 

Triumphant, he rushed to his side, fumbling with the hot ropes. The Gascon’s face was slack and bruised, with a smear of blood stemming from his hairline, and soot had begun to settle on his skin. Once the ropes were undone, Porthos patted his cheek in a failed attempt to rouse him, and instead untied his damp bandana to wrap around his face, allowing him to breathe better through the disgustingly thick smoke now filling the room completely. 

Porthos lifted his lax body over his shoulder, taking only shallow breaths, and made his way back to the door as fast as he could, dancing around the growing fire and ducking under collapsed beams as he went. With two quick steps, hey were free, and his momentum carried them into the cool night air, away from the house, before his strength failed him and he sank ungracefully to his knees, lowering the body over his shoulder as gently as he could manage. 

Aramis and Athos crowded around in worry, but Porthos heard nothing, having eyes only for their youngest laying still against the cobblestones. Someone took off the bandana, re-wetting it and wiping clean d’Artagnan’s ash-covered face before trying to get him to drink. Thankfully, the boy managed to wake enough for it, and he swallowed the liquid groggily with his eyes still closed. Porthos hovered close, hoping for him to wake up properly, but Aramis put a calm hand on his shoulder to gain his attention. 

“We need to get him back to the garrison; I can’t treat either of you out here.” 

Porthos would have protested that he was fine, but when he stood up to prove it his balance wavered, and he found himself blinking back spots from his vision once again. Aramis patted his shoulder reassuringly. 

“The smoke’s still in your lungs, but it will pass.” 

The three of them stumbled back the way they came, sharing the weight of one unconscious brother between them. 

\--- 

D'Artagnan awoke with a start, the memory of flames still licking at his skin as he sat up in a panic, and visions of smoky tendrils dragged across his vision. But, just as soon as he woke up, he realised he was no longer in that house, no longer suffocating in the thick, blackened air, and he was able to freely move. He blinked, clearing his mind and taking deep gasping breaths. A glass was thrust in front of his face, and he took it gratefully, easing the scratchiness at the back of his throat somewhat, and looked up belatedly to find Aramis, gazing back at him with both concern and understanding. 

“You’re alright, d’Artagnan. Deep breaths now,” he instructed, resting a gentle hand on his back as he tried to inhale slower, matching the pace set by his friend. His airways still felt clogged up and he coughed a few times when he breathed too deeply, but eventually he calmed himself enough to remember the events of the night before. 

“Pierre, he betrayed me,” he said, voice hoarse in a way he’d never experienced before. He swallowed before trying again. “He tricked me into surrendering, and they killed him because he was a musketeer.” He was struck by a sudden thought. “They wanted revenge for the accident by the old blacksmith’s two weeks ago, other musketeers may be in danger!” 

Aramis only hushed him, pressing a hand to his shoulder and making him lie back down. 

“We know, and they’ve been dealt with now. You don’t have to worry about it.” 

D’Artagnan nodded, relieved, and lay back against the inviting pillow. His hands stung still at the remaining burn of the ropes from when he tried desperately to pull free, and yet another thought came to his groggy mind. 

“How did you find me? I don’t remember getting out...” 

“Porthos was told by one of his Little Friends that you’d been hurt, and it was hard to miss the smoke guiding our way. Oh, you should have seen him, d’Artagnan,” Aramis smiled, looking over to the bed to their right. “Porthos didn’t hesitate for a second, he ran straight into the burning building to get you, came out in a burst of smoke and fire like an avenging angel, it was quite dramatic.” 

D’Artagnan huffed a laugh tiredly at the description, and took in Porthos’ sooty, dishevelled appearance. He was sleeping, and looked very peaceful despite the bandages that peaked out from under the blankets that must have been caused by the fire. He felt a little guilty. 

“He’ll be ok, right?” He asked quietly, worrying at his state, but taking Aramis’ almost cheerful disposition as a hint that nobody was in danger anymore. 

“He’ll be fine, just needs some rest. As do you, as a matter of fact!” And with that, Aramis tucked the blanket back up to his chin and rested a hand in his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. D’Artagnan closed his eyes, still exhausted from the day previous, and leant into the touch, falling back into deep slumber with ease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this got wayyy too long, a whole 3k that was supposed to be 1 (which makes this the longest instalment by maybe a third?), but happy saturday!  
> \- i don't know anything about smoke inhalation/recovery, they probably need more care than this but i am too tired.   
> thanks for sticking with me so far!


	21. day 21 - torture

“He doesn’t know anything!” Aramis shouts, concealing his panic behind a mask of authority, and makes a split-second decision in the hopes of saving his friend. “I’m the only one who does, because I am their captain.” 

The two guards pause from where they were standing over d’Artagnan with a boot on his chest, keeping him pinned to the floor of their dungeon after he’d tried to fight back. The boy stops his wriggling as well, looking at Aramis in surprised confusion, which quickly morphs into understanding. Porthos shoots him an angry look from where he’s also chained to the wall to his left. 

“He’s lying, I am the captain here,” he says, daring anybody to disagree, “I am the only one with the information you want.” 

Athos remains slumped unmoving against the wall, and too out of it to comment. 

D’Artagnan struggles against the boot on his chest and opens his mouth to add his own claim to the mix, but the man above him kicks him viciously. 

“Shut up – all o’ you!” He shouts, and looks between the four of them with a critical eye. 

“That one,” he says to his companions, pointing at Aramis, and the marksman feels relief flood through him that his brothers are out of danger for now. “He’s got the fanciest hat, and if it turns out he’s the wrong man, we’ll just move on to the rest until the boss gets what he wants.” 

There’s sadistic glint in his eye that makes Aramis shiver, and wonder if he’d just continue with whatever torture is planned, regardless of whether he gets his answer or not. 

Porthos and d’Artagnan protest helplessly as Aramis is briefly unchained to be taken from their cell, and he takes a last look at them, silently begging for their forgiveness. He hears their voices echo down the passageway as he’s dragged away and hopes he will see them again. 

“Jacques, go and shut them up will you,” says the man in charge, and one of the guards peels off to return to the cell. “And keep watch outside; these musketeers are crafty.” 

They take him into a larger room, with chains decorating the walls and ceiling sparsely, and racks of horrible implements stacked to one side. Tell-tale stains on the floor spoke of the experience of these men, and Aramis’ stomach curled in nervous dread. 

They attached his chained hands to a hook dangling from the high ceiling, ignoring his token struggle, and one of the men ripped the back of his shirt apart with terrifying ease. Aramis knew what was coming, but the crack of the whip against the floor behind him still made him jump, and his whole body tensed in anticipation. 

“I’ll give you one chance to tell me what I want to know,” said the man behind him, and the grin in his voice spoke volumes about how much he was going to enjoy this. 

Aramis remained silent, not trusting his voice to remain completely steady. 

“Have it your way then.” 

Not a second later, the whip sang through the air and slashed across the skin of his back in a blazing line, and Aramis arched away from the blow, opening his mouth in a silent gasp but willing himself not to make a sound. The whip landed a second time before he’d managed to gather his balance properly, and the tip curled around his waist, catching on the skin, and he felt warmth begin to seep immediately from the wound. 

Again and again the leather whistled through the air and tore at his skin, and each time Aramis tried to move away from the blows, but was unable to escape the constant, agonising pain. Eventually, he lost his will to remain silent, and let his cries fill the room at each terrible strike, despite knowing he wasn’t far enough from his brothers that they wouldn’t hear him. He tried to push the pain away, picturing the smiling faces of his brothers and focusing on the memory, and his suffering began to fade to a distant fact. 

Suddenly, there was silence and stillness, and Aramis blinked the room to focus just as one of the guards came round to grab a handful of his hair and pull his head up. 

“Now,” he said, sounding a little winded from his enthusiasm, “are you going to talk?” 

Aramis looked down at him, and then spat in his face. The guard’s eyes widened in fury, and he punched him in the stomach, winding him. He drew in wheezing breaths with difficulty, and found himself being lowered to the floor, but before he could think to fight back, the two men had unshackled his left wrist before forcing it behind his back, and chaining them back together. 

He wriggled to get away from them, but they had already stood back away from him, and suddenly the floor lurched beneath him as his feet were dragged by their chain lifting him upside down from the floor. His head left the floor, and he swung helplessly, feeling sick at the constant shifting onf gravity. 

“Let’s see if you can say anything after this, then.” The men dragged closer a metal trough, the feet screeching against the stone floor, and a sloshing sound filled the room before Aramis could see over the rim, where the trough was filled with water. His nostrils flared in fear, but he didn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing it, and instead steeled himself for what was to come. 

The more talkative man of the two grinned evilly at him, as he cranked a wheel on the wall slowly, gradually letting Aramis down towards the trough. He wriggled, tensing his midsection in an attempt to avoid the water, but he knew he couldn’t escape it for long, and he quickly found his head submerged within the cold water. 

He thrashed in panic, feeling the water immediately run up his nose. His head began to feel heavy and his eyes ached from being held upside down for so long, and his dizziness increased as he was unable to breath underwater. He bent his knees, trying to pull himself up, but he only managed to bump his head on the edge of the metal. Slowly, his ears began to buzz with the force of the blood running though his head, and he started to go slack, unable to struggle without another breath, and as he felt he was about to pass out, he was suddenly yanked up by his feet again, and his head was free of the water. 

He coughed and spluttered, feeling the water still clogging his nose and throat as he tried to breathe through a throat that felt closed off. No sooner than he had managed to take a few breaths and dispel the black spots from his vision, he was lowered once more into the trough. 

Again, he couldn’t help but thrash about as a result of his instincts, despite knowing he should conserve his energy. He feels the blood from his back run down his body and into the water, and he tasted the metallic tang as he is lifted again from the water to gasp in great lungful's of air in desperation. He feels himself fading from lack of air, and can’t focus on the words around him over the buzzing in his ears, and feels hopeless as he is lowered a third time underwater. 

His muscles ache from his attempts at escape and the strain of coughing, and he knows he can’t continue like this much longer, the need for air almost making him take in a breath of water instead of air, but he crushes down that impulse quickly. Distantly, he hopes his brothers will forgive him if he dies here, but more than anything wishes he could have held on for longer to protect them. His consciousness begins to abandon him despite how much he fights it, and he goes limp, barely clinging onto his senses, as he is left underwater for longer than before. 

Suddenly, he is withdrawn from the water again, and as he chokes and his lungs heave to take in precious air, he feels himself laid on the ground this time and encircled in a pair of arms. He tries to get away, weakly straining against the arms with the little strength he has left, all the while still gasping like a landed fish and blinking bloody water from his eyes. 

“Calm down, Aramis, it’s us, you’re safe. Just breathe, okay? Breathe, we’re here. You’re okay.” 

The rumbled voice sharpens into his panicked mind and he stops struggling at the continued reassurance, recognising he is no longer in danger. 

“Porthos?” He asks, still shivering and trying to dislodge the water constricting his throat. 

“The one and only,” Porthos says, letting Aramis sag forward and supporting him with a large hand on his chest, careful to avoid the lash marks on his back. 

“Oh, goodness,” Aramis says wearily, “never have I been so glad to see your angelic face, my friend.” 

Porthos laughs, clearly happy to see Aramis is back with them, but his voice is strained with emotion. His interrogators lie dead on the floor, and Athos is divesting them of the rest of their weapons to share between the four of them, but he still looks unsteady on his feet, blood still matting his hair. D’Artagnan had ripped up his own shirt into lengths, and sets about gently wrapping Aramis’ torso to cover the lacerations and keep them protected until they can be properly treated. As he works, they explain how they got the better of their cell guard, before running straight here to find him. 

“And _don’t_ try and pull that stunt again, you fool,” d’Artagnan scolds, clearly frustrated that their brother had offered himself as a sacrifice for them, as hypocritical as the admonishment is. 

Aramis just smiles, remorseless and unable to promise something he won’t honour. 

“We should go, we don’t know how many more there are, or who might come looking,” Athos says, leaning against the wall for support. He has strapped weapons belts to himself and holds out the other sword and set of pistols that they have to work with. D’Artagnan takes the sword and a pistol, handing the other to Porthos as a last defence. 

“Ready to go?” asks the big musketeer as he helps Aramis to his feet. 

“More than ready,” Aramis says, leaning into Porthos’ steady support at his side and careful to avoid his tormented skin. “Let’s get out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like i got a bit lazy with the set up lol but i didn't want to redo anything that had been touched on in other chapters. sorry aramis :))  
> on another note idk if anybody notices present tense being particularly different to read than past? i didn't realise until i got like halfway through aha, i usually only do my notes in present and go for past when writing up but im not sure how much it matters to people
> 
> 3 weeks in and just 1 week left! so close.


	22. day 22 - burned

Porthos wished he’d at least had breakfast that morning, but he supposed you couldn’t exactly plan when your camp was going to be attacked. 

The four of them had slept outside for the night, breaking up the last leg of their journey, and had been rudely awoken by a gang of petty thieves trying to sneak up on them unawares. Thankfully, Athos was keeping watch and shouted them awake, already drawing his sword and facing down the line of attackers. Petty thieves they may have been, but there was a great many of them for such an occupation – perhaps fifteen of them, Porthos estimated as he hurriedly set his belts over his shirt, having no time to dress properly. 

He shot his pistol at the first man that came his way before drawing his own weapon, hearing his brothers similarly use their own ranged weaponry to thin the crowd. Two men advanced on him and he drew his sword, standing ready, and met the first man in a clash of heavy steel, side-stepping a downwards swing from the other. The adrenaline of the fight was already running through him, and he fought off the two men at once with great ferocity, trading blows and avoiding their less well-trained manoeuvres. 

He was caught off guard by a blade glancing his ribs that he didn’t dodge fast enough, and the man in front of him took the opportunity to rush him, avoiding his schiavona and using his heavy-set body to grapple the big musketeer. He was obviously more accustomed to hand-to-hand brawling than sword fighting, and wanted to press his advantage. 

Porthos grit his teeth as the air was knocked out of him, and quickly shimmied out of the man’s grip enough to bring his clasped hands down _hard_ on the top of his head. The move didn’t knock him out, but it dazed him enough that Porthos could reverse their positions, and he punched the man in the face once, hearing his skull smack against the ground with a sickening _crack_ before he went still. He looked up and scanned for more enemies, still hearing sounds of fighting from his three brothers, and rolled quickly out of the way of a gun aimed in his direction, narrowly avoiding the bullet that embedded itself in the ground beside him with a _thud_ and a cloud of dust. 

He saw a second man aiming at him and hurriedly moved himself, hoping the speed and increased distance would make him a harder target to hit, and after a moment he skidded to his knees behind a large, felled log, hearing the bullet hit the wood close to his head mere seconds after he’d hid. He took his pistol from his belt and reloaded, struggling a little with his powder flask as the spout’s closing mechanism was jammed from his earlier scuffle, but still managing it in half a minute. He twisted to look over the log, taking note of the two men advancing on his position and waiting until they had fired again to shoot his own. 

One moment Porthos was lining up a deadly shot at the oncoming enemy, the next he’d pulled the trigger and there was a fizzing _schoop_ sound and a blinding flash in his immediate proximity, and a sheet of fire rolled up his body from his waist. He dropped his spent pistol in surprise and momentary confusion, before the pain set in and he was horribly aware of his injuries. His waist and chest burned with a blinding agony, and he wondered if the skin there was scorched clean off. Belatedly, he realised his shirt was on fire, and he frantically pulled off its remains, preventing the remaining heat from exacerbating the already incredible sting of his wounds. 

A shot rang out behind him, reminding him of his situation, and he ducked down behind his shelter again, regretting that he’d left his sword on the ground where it had fallen in his brief grappling session. A look to his waist showed the predictably smouldering remains of his powder flask, and he knew he was left with just his fists and pistol as bludgeoning weapons. Pushing down the pain and shake of his hands, he waited once more for sounds of shots to give away his enemies' positions, and then threw himself out from behind his natural shield, charging with an almighty roar. 

He spun past the first surprised man, letting the pistol in his right hand follow his momentum and smack into the back of his head, before continuing on to the next closest thief, who had quickly overcome his surprise and drawn his rapier. Porthos blocked a weak slash with the barrel of his pistol, pushing the blade up and to the side and leaving the man’s midsection vulnerable. He drove two punches into his gut, winding him with the first and knocking him completely off balance with the second, and stole the weapon from his hands before he hit the ground. 

Now armed, Porthos re-joined the fight, taking out one of the three men trying to corner Aramis against a tree so the marksman could easier deal with the other two. He danced around blades with an agility born of experience, and very soon the clearing was quiet, save for the musketeers catching their breath, and the occasional moan of pain from downed enemies. As the last man fell, Porthos dropped the rapier wearily, having lost his pistol to a well-aimed throw near the end, and made his slow way back to the camp. 

Without the excitement of the fight running through his veins, the pain from his side returned full force; it felt like it was on fire, but he didn’t dare look at it just yet. The skin pulled as he walked, and he had to hold his right arm out awkwardly to stop himself accidentally brushing it which, he learned the hard way, caused a great deal more pain. He was kneeling on the ground, frantically pulling at the stopper to his waterskin with shaking hands, when he saw another person enter his vision and gently take hold of the skin for him. 

“Easy, Porthos,” came Aramis’ soothing voice, “Let me handle this.” 

Porthos forced his hands to relax and took a breath to calm himself down, not realising he was trembling so much. He dimly recognised the voice Aramis was using as the same one he used with distressed patients to calm them down, like trying to placate a child without being patronising, but in the moment he was almost thankful for it. 

He let himself be laid back on his side on an empty bedroll, and let out a hiss as Aramis slowly poured the water over his damaged torso, trying to cool the area and remove as much debris as he could without irritating it. Porthos could see the skin was a mixture of pink and red skin, blistering a little near his waist where the powder had ignited from his flask. At the edges of the wound, the skin was peeled and scorched black from the powder and dirty flames, and the stains didn’t disappear with the light flush of water. He wondered if it would scar like that. 

“Are the others okay?” he asked a little late as Aramis worked, uncorking another skin and pouring that carefully as well, giving him relief from the throbbing injury. 

“We’re all find, general wear and tear,” said d’Artagnan, coming up in front of him with Aramis’ medical bag in hand. “You were the only one injured this time.” The Gascon trailed a concerned gaze from his pale face, to his side and back. “Athos is gathering prisoners to bring back and face justice, quite a few of them survived but will wake up rather sore later.” 

D’Artagnan was busy mixing up a foul-smelling concoction in a little wooden cup, and gave it to Porthos with instructions to drink it in one go, which he did. He passed a jar and a loop of bandages over to Aramis, exchanging them for two empty waterskins and scampering off to refill them. 

“How long you gonna do that?” Porthos mumbled, happy to have relief from the burning sensation in his side, but knowing that the pain wouldn’t go away for several days at least if it didn’t have a constant source to keep it cool, which wasn’t a viable option. 

“As long as it takes for you to feel a bit more comfortable, my friend,” Aramis said softly behind him, clearly wishing he could ease his pain quicker. 

Porthos just hummed, feeling the effects of d’Artagnan’s disgusting drink take effect slowly, and the agony in his side began to fade to a dull ache. His eyes drooped, the medicine and soothing attentions of his friend combining with the exhaustion of a long fight pulling at his eyelids, and he let himself drift into unconsciousness, with every faith his friend would take care of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at top of the flask there's a metal spout with a lever to squeeze and it opens up the inside of the spout to let your powder out, but only enough to fill the length of the spout otherwise all your powder would come out at once, anyway it'd spring back into place when you let go but since it was knocked about in his fight it got jammed open, leaving all the powder inside vulnerable to any spark to ignite it - porthos was just unlucky.  
> also apparently you don't pour alcohol on burn wounds, so the pot d'art got out was honey, which would soak the bandages and be a natural deterrent to infection (for small wounds really, but there's a high chance porthos would be very sick after this with such a large burn area)


	23. day 23 - "don't look"

The first thing d’Artagnan noticed upon waking was the strong odour of old meat, and a strange weight pinning his body down. The second thing he noticed, was a wet _thud_ sounding every few seconds, and it was very close by. Freezing in place and scanning through his most recent memories, d’Artagnan came to a quick conclusion that he wished was simply a huge misunderstanding. 

He was undoubtably in the lair of the very criminal he had been looking for. He didn’t remember how he arrived in this place, but all the signs pointed to the man that terrified citizens had dubbed The Butcher, on account of his butchering of the people he killed. No victims had been returned in a recognisable state, which is why it had taken so long for the missing people to be announced as murder victims, but once a grave filled with accumulated belongings and fresh bones had been discovered, the news quickly spread of the serial killer, and the musketeers had been put to task tracking the villain down. The only information they had so far, was that he was apparently consuming his victims rather than just killing them, evidenced by the human teeth marks on the bones that were still intact. 

D’Artagnan suppressed the urge to vomit as he realised that the weight surrounding him must be other collected bodies, all dead according to the stench, though why he was still alive remained a mystery. He listened for any sound to give him a clue to how close he was to the Butcher, but at that moment a body above him squirmed, and tried to speak in it’s semi-conscious state. D'Artagnan panicked, willing the man to shut up, but the sounds of chopping grew silent all of a sudden, and the Gascon hurriedly played dead, keeping his eyes shut and face lax as the body on top of him was yanked off in one strong movement. He heard the man seem to wake up properly, still slurring his words, and then there was a sickening crack, and the voice stopped. D'Artagnan felt sick but forced himself to remain still, not wanting to be discovered. The body was replaced on the pile as presumably the Butcher got back to his work on the previous corpse, knife resuming its routine, and d’Artagnan chanced opening his eye a sliver to see if he was in his line of sight. 

A quick peek revealed the man facing away from his location, head down at his blood-stained table, and d’Artagnan began to form a plan. He had no weapons on him, his doublet and boots taken leaving him barefoot in shirt, braes, and breeches. His brothers would be looking for him when he didn’t turn up at their rendezvous, though he had no way of knowing how long he’d been unconscious for, and the others likely wouldn’t be able to find him quickly – if at all – since they’d all come up empty handed in the last few weeks of searching. He knew he had to make a move before he was taken to be chopped into mincemeat, but he could not chance being seen; he sincerely doubted he could take on a man that size as unarmed and still vaguely dazed as he was. 

Inch by inch, he began to shuffle out from underneath the cooling cadaver pressing down on him, doing his best to remain unheard even with his movements impeded by the bodies beneath him not providing an easy surface. He froze as an arm flopped out from the pile, but it didn’t make a sound other than a fabric _swish_ , so he continued, unnoticed. He paused every few seconds, fighting against the instinct to just run no matter the noise, and gradually he eased himself out from the tangle of stiff limbs. Just as he pulled his foot free from the pile, the recently murdered man rolled off the top of the pile and landed with a thud against the stone floor, skin slapping against the ground as his other arm and feet followed suit afterwards. There was barely a second in which to stow himself behind the solid bench next to them before the Butcher stopped chopping again, and heavy boots thundered across the floor heading straight towards his position. 

D'Artagnan held a hand to his mouth to keep himself silent, thinking _don’t look, don’t look_ as the butcher approached. His heard pounded so hard he thought it might be audibly throughout the room, or reverberate straight through the wooden panel at his back and give away his position. He heard the Butcher come to a stop next to the fallen body, and silently prayed for him to leave, that he wouldn’t investigate a few more inches and see him hidden behind the corner. There was a loud sniff, the sound of fabric shuffling, and then the body was dragged to sit upright against the rest of his victims before the footsteps lead back to his table. The knife sang was it was picked up once more, and d’Artagnan sagged in relief, realising he was just resuming his work again. 

Suddenly, a hand shot out from around the corner of his hiding place and he was dragged by the ankle into the centre of the room, back sliding across the floor and hands scrabbling uselessly at the cabinet’s legs. The Butcher towered over him, beady eyes boring into him with a nauseating hunger and wielding his huge stained cleaver. D'Artagnan tried to back away frantically as the hand let go of his ankle and instead grabbed him by the front of his shirt, lifting him like he weighed nothing and slamming him down onto the bloody tabletop. He gasped, winded, and before he could escape a huge meaty hand pinned him down, spanning almost the entire width of his chest and feeling like it had crushed his lungs in the process. 

Eyes wide with horror, d’Artagnan watched as the blade was brought up high above the Butcher’s head, and he cried out as it was brought down fast, dodging at the last second to avoid having his head split in two. The man above him growled in anger and yanked at the cleaver, using the hand on his chest as leverage to eventually pull it free from the wood. The Gascon scrambled frantically with his hands, searching for anything to defend himself with, and wrapped a sweaty hand around the wooden handle of a knife, wasting no time before plunging it into the Butcher’s flesh somewhere in his side. 

The raised cleaver was dropped from a shocked hand, and the man howled in pain and rage, and in the next moment d’Artagnan found himself flying through the air, having been flung from the table in a fit of fury. He hit the doorframe hard and crumpled to the ground just outside of the room, gasping for air and shaking from his brush with death. He dragged himself onto his knees, narrowly avoiding the bloody knife that _thunked_ into the door right behind his back, and then awkwardly stumbled into a run, building up speed after he regained his balance. He could hear the enraged shouts of the Butcher echoing down the corridor as if he was right behind him, and picked up the pace, his back tingling as if his enemy was right behind him. 

The layout of the Butcher’s lair was confusing, each door looking like the last with no clear identification of where he was, most of them were locked, and there were no windows to escape through. There were very few candles placed in nooks along the wall, despite the darkness of the corridor, and in panic at the approaching footsteps, d’Artagnan picked an open door to run through, almost tripping down the unseen stairs in front of him as he did. He descended quickly but carefully, not wanting to make any more sound than needed to move fast, and once in the room he stood behind a stack of crates, catching his breath and widening his eyes, willing them to adjust to the lack of light faster. 

There were two doors in this room, along with rows of stacked crates that emanated an awful stench that d’Artagnan didn’t want to think about. He went to the first door, but once again it was locked and reinforced. He looked to the second door, seeing it was open, and barely stepped towards it before noticing the footsteps had stopped at the top of the stairs, and he instead raced back to his hiding spot. Ice settled in his spine as a moment later he heard the stairs began to creak as the behemoth entered the large cellar with him. 

D'Artagnan willed himself to calm, but his heart was racing and he couldn’t stop the fine tremble than ran through his body. He pressed himself back against the wood to keep himself hidden, silently begging his pursuer not to come any closer. All was silent, and d’Artagnan strained his ears to catch even the man’s heavy breathing, but that too was strangely absent. He did not want to chance a look, lest he come face to face with the killer, but he couldn’t tell where he had gone by sound alone. He waited, for what seemed like an age as his taught muscles began to ache from sheer nervousness, but still dared not make a sound. 

All of a sudden, the crates next to him exploded out in a flurry of movement, and he ducked, feeling planks of wood and debris hitting him as he covered his head instinctively, and his heart jumped into his throat thinking _this is it, I’ve been found and now he’s going to kill me_ , but a moment later there was another almighty crash as more crates were destroyed, and a terrifying, booming voice filled the stale air. 

“Where are you, little piggy?” 

D’Artagnan supressed a shudder, thanking God and every saint that he hadn’t been discovered, and he takes this opportunity to move. He knew he wouldn’t be able to conceal himself in the mess for long, so at the next crash, after peering out from under a splintered panel to make sure he wasn’t facing him, he took advantage of the noise and distraction to run across the short distance and through the open doorway, this time to a kitchen area, frantically looking for a different exit. His hope sank fast as he realised it was a dead end. 

A sudden, chilling silence filled the rooms, and he hurriedly looked about for yet another hiding place, knowing he’d never make it up the stairs unseen. With nowhere better to hide, he ducked under the large table, hoping that the tablecloth and the Butcher’s ridiculous height, combined with the incredible darkness, could prevent him from being seen. His heart thundered in his ears as he stifled his panicked breathing once more, but after a moment he realised the sound was coming from the large pair of boots appearing around the doorway. His eyes widened, accustomed now to the dark, and too late he saw the trail of blood that lead right to his location, presumably from the gory table he was laid on earlier. 

Before he could think, he was grabbed once more, pulled viciously from under the table even as he frantically grasped onto whatever he could reach. His fingers hooked onto the table cloth and he yanked, catching a plate as it fell which he smashed ineffectively against the brute. If anything, he was even angrier than before, enraged from his wounds and being strung along in a doomed game of cat-and-mouse. One large hand wrapped itself around d’Artagnan’s throat, lifting him completely from the floor even as his bare toes strained to reach the stone beneath him. His jaw groaned at the pressure his captor used as he began to choke the Gascon, until his weakening hands stopped trying to gouge lines from the Butcher’s hardened skin. 

Dark spots danced in the musketeer’s vision as he felt himself go limp, desperate to breath but powerless to even fight back. The pounding of his pulse in his ears slowed gradually, and his body started to go numb. 

Then, in the distance of d’Artagnan’s consciousness, there was shouting, and his body was shaken like a wet rag before there was a loud bang, and he dropped hard, along with the hand holding him up. He gasped, drawing in air like he’d never breathed before, and he choked as his lungs filled fast, and his sore throat protested. With trembling limbs, he tried to push himself up, not comprehending why the Butcher was still just playing with him, and at the first touch to his shoulder he recoiled faster than he thought he had the strength for. He would _not_ die in a place like this, not without a fight. The hand returned to his shoulder again, gentler, and the movement was so _off_ that d’Artagnan opened his eyes at last, vision clearing to reveal three concerned faces, and one dead one. 

As he registered who was in front of him, he flung himself forward in a sudden and unplanned movement, desperate for comfort after his ordeal, and wrapped his arms around the closest man’s waist, sobbing uncontrollably. 

Aramis instantly pulled him closer in the embrace, but reeled back in shock when his hand touched the bloody fabric of d’Artagnan’s shirt. 

“God, you’re covered in blood!” he exclaimed, alerting Porthos and Athos as they too saw the saturated garment. “Let me see your wounds, how were you hurt?” He asked in a rush, pulling at the shirt, but d’Artagnan shook his head. 

“Not mine,” he said hoarsely against Aramis’ chest, unable to release his arms from around his brother just yet. 

The words placated the men around him for the moment, understanding that there was no current threat. Aramis relaxed again, stroking a hand through his hair in comfort and understanding, letting the boy gather himself in his own time. Eventually, d’Artagnan’s tears dried, and his grip relaxed little by little. He noticed that someone had placed their cloak over his soaked and trembling shoulders and he felt warmer. Athos sat behind him and wrapped his arms gently around his waist to support him when Aramis had to let go, and the medic carefully wrapped his throbbing ankle up from when he’d been grabbed earlier. He drank some water to soothe his crushed throat, but Aramis said he’d have to look at it properly with better light and medical supplies. 

“I’m ready to go,” d’Artagnan whispered, wishing for nothing more than to get out of the sick man’s lair now that he’d collected himself. 

The four of them left the room, went back up the stairs and followed d’Artagnan’s accidental trail of blood back to the butchering room to collect his effects, and then they finally exited the building through a side door Porthos had discovered and kicked down to get to him. D'Artagnan looked up at the sky, feeling the sun warm on his face and he relished in its brightness, even if it hurt his eyes. Twice in that hell, he truly thought he was about to die, and he felt blessed to be able to enjoy the simple facts of life again; the sweet breeze in the open air, the soft grass beneath his feet, and his brothers, side by side and supporting him, as always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really like huge enemies in stealth games can you tell  
> this is inspired by all those horrible, terrifying scenes where you have to hide from a villain you can't fight, e.g. killer croc in i think arkham origins, playing as miles in the 2018 spiderman game and hiding from rhino in the grates, makes ur heart pound like nothing else


	24. day 24 - memory loss

He woke up screaming to a blinding pain in his stomach, and a man kneeling over him holding a bloody knife. Instantly he was thrashing, trying to get away from the man who just stabbed him, but he quickly found that there are two more men holding him down by his shoulders, keeping his flailing wrists and legs pinned down so he could barely wriggle away. 

“Stop! Get off me!” He shouted in terror, pulling at the iron grip they had on him, but neither man budged and he ended up straining himself, and his belly ached with a deep sting from the stab wound. Belatedly, he realised the pain was coming from the first man, who had abandoned the knife in favour of pushing down hard on the injury he just caused, though it seemed counteractive to his previous action. He thought he could hear them saying something to him, but over his own yelling and pained cries he couldn’t hear any of it. His struggles weakened gradually, aided by the blood loss and pain, and he realised tears were still pouring down his face. He didn’t think he’d done anything to these men, he didn’t even recognise them. 

Come to think of it, he couldn’t recall his own name. 

“Please,” he said quietly, putting the thought to the back of his mind, “why are you doing this?” 

The hands relaxed their grip a little, but the pressure was still held on his bleeding stomach. 

“I’m sorry, d’Artagnan,” said the man who stabbed him, “we have to do this or you’ll bleed out. I’m afraid I don’t have any pain draughts left.” 

He frowns, thinking it odd that the moustached man would want to stop him bleeding to death after he went to the trouble of stabbing him, and then his hearing finally caught up with him. 

“D’Artagnan? Is that my name?” He didn’t think before talking that it could be dangerous to reveal his worrying lack of memory to the strangers, but in his defence his brain felt rather fuzzy. 

The three men froze, and he could see them looking at each other in silent communication. 

“Do you know who we are?” Asks the man to his right with the cleft lip, after a brief pause. 

D'Artagnan thought there was more to the question, since these men obviously knew his own name, but he couldn’t answer with anything other than “Soldiers.” 

One of them gasped, and the mountain to his left gripped his shoulder a little tighter than before, and he knew he must have said something very wrong. Attempting a reassuring smile despite the blood on his hands, the moustached man leant over to peer in his face. 

“What is the last thing you remember?” 

The question threw d’Artagnan off for a moment, and he thought back, floundering for an answer when all he found in his memories was a blank space. He couldn’t remember where he was, what the date was, what he had been doing that landed him in this situation. He couldn’t even remember his own name, or whether he had family to go back to, and the thought terrified him. Evidently recognising the panic on his face, the man quickly intervened. 

“Never mind, don’t think too hard on it for the moment,” he reassured him with a warm smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “All you need to know is that you’re safe now, and we’re going to look after you.” 

The man with the cleft lip had quietly taken moustache’s place holding a wad of fabric to his wound, and without the shock of waking up in extreme pain, d’Artagnan realised his groggy mind must have misinterpreted the events, otherwise why would they try so hard to heal him again? 

The moustache returned again – Aramis, he introduced himself as – with a clinking bag and withdrew several items that made d’Artagnan shake with nerves. Noticing this, Aramis calmly talked him through each step, voice kept to a soothing level and taking his mind off the pain. The big man – Porthos – took over the distractions once the medic began sewing his skin up, telling him about the musketeers and their duty, and regaling him with anecdotes and little jokes so his focus didn’t turn to the careful stitching being done. There was a strained edge to his voice, however, and whenever d’Artagnan caught his eye the big man would hurriedly look away, his face crumpling slightly with an implacable emotion. 

Aramis moved on to look at his head once his stomach was finished, and he gently moved him around, feeling with deft hands where there was a large bump at the back of his head where the hair was sticky and matted. He tutted in sympathy and rolled his head to the side to properly wash the blood off, apologising softly whenever d’Artagnan hissed at a light tug or prod of fingers. 

Once he was finally bandaged up, he was carefully moved onto a bedroll and covered in a warm blanket. The other man – Athos – had set up camp around them, and had remained mostly silent since his thirst question, and d’Artagnan surmised that he must be upset with him for forgetting him. 

Aramis came over to give him some food, waking him up from a light doze, and sat by him as they both ate. 

“Will I get my memories back?” D’Artagnan asked hesitantly, almost afraid of the answer he'd get. He felt younger than he probably was, though that was to be expected when the world dropped out from beneath one’s feet. 

Aramis looked down at him with a sadness in his eyes, but more than anything he looked determined, hopeful. 

“Of course you will,” he said. “You’ve pulled through worse than this before. Don’t tell me a little bump on the head is going to stop you now?” He grinned, and d’Artagnan could tell he was trying to cheer him up so he smiled back, wanting to reassure the man. He felt like he could trust him, and that he should have faith in him, even if he didn’t yet know why. He vowed to do his best to get better, not just so he could reclaim his own life back, but to stop these kind men from looking at him with such pain in their expressions that no amount of false smiles could conceal. 

\--- 

Porthos sat himself down beside Athos, leaning against a tree and facing the fire. Aramis was talking quietly with the lad, no doubt trying to make him feel better still. He looked scared, confused, and worryingly blank, and the screaming and pleading from earlier still echoed horribly in the musketeer’s mind. He would never forget the fear that was directed at him from his younger brother, but he knew that as much as he was hurting to be forgotten now, he at least had Athos and Aramis with him. D’Artagnan had nobody, no memories, barely even his name, and must be feeling so terribly alone. 

Athos was deep in his thoughts, and barely reacted to Porthos’ quiet appearance. 

“’e’s still ‘ere, you know,” Porthos said, nudging him with his shoulder. “Don’t look like you’ve given up on him so quick.” 

Athos looked up at him, and his eyes were shining even as his face betrayed no emotion. He blinked quickly, swallowing before thinking through a response. 

“I know,” he replied softly, glance flickering to the boy and then back to the fire, “it’s just... rather a shock. To suddenly be forgotten...” he trailed off, visibly collecting himself. 

“We won’t give up on him,” Porthos stated firmly. “We have to have hope that he’ll remember.” 

There was a pause. The fire crackled, and d’Artagnan slowly sank back into the blankets to sleep, Aramis tucking him in with a thoughtful look on his face, pressing a kiss into his hair. 

“And if he never remembers?” 

The question was spoken so faintly, Porthos almost didn’t hear it. He looked over, and Athos gazed back at him, mixed worry and tentative hope in his eyes. 

“Then we’ll be there for him to make new ones. He’s still our brother, and we’ll never abandon him.” 

On the other side of the fire, d’Artagnan smiled, and even with his memory missing, he knew he’d found his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had a couple ideas for this one but stuck with this first one. i don't know if it comes off as rushed lol but i'm tired, i went for a run for the first time in a while today and nearly fell asleep while typing i was so worn out. so beware of mistakes :))


	25. day 25 - truth serum

“Tell me what route the King will take, or we will have to resort to... _different_ methods.” 

Athos held his silence as Victor – their captor and interrogator – prowled around the room, meeting each of his brothers’ eyes in turn in voiceless agreement. There was nothing this man could do that would make them betray their monarch. 

The villain turned on his heel, walking back down the length of the room in an almost leisurely manner. He stopped at Aramis and fiddled with the short blade in his hand, scrutinising the marksman for a hint that he would crack under pressure. All four of them were covered in bruises from their whole day of interrogation, and it dawned on Athos that if they were to make an escape, it would have to be soon before they were in too bad a shape to make the journey out. 

“Will _you_ tell me?” Their captor asked, leaning forward and trailing the knife across Aramis’ bearded jaw. He kept his mouth firmly closed, prepared as they all were to keep their silence. The man stepped back with a disappointed sigh. 

“Hmm, no?” He turned with a glint in his eye. “How about now?” And he turned suddenly to d’Artagnan on his left, bringing the knife up across his face with frightening speed, a thin trail of blood arcing in the air in its wake. 

The Gascon jumped at the unpredicted motion, though he otherwise didn’t react but with a glare, and Athos felt pride in his ability to curb his emotions. Porthos tugged at the restraints keeping him in his own chair, growling in fury. The man’s lips curled in sadistic joy, and he stepped closer to the big musketeer. 

“We don’t know of what route you speak. That information is not for our eyes.” Athos was bluffing, but if the man was able to be convinced, he might leave them and set his sights on some other source of information. Or he might possibly just kill them for being useless to him, their odds weren’t looking good either way. 

Victor straightened, turning to spear him with a look that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise in unpleasant dread. 

“I see,” he said simply, and walked out of the room. 

When he didn’t come back in immediately, the captive musketeers shared a confused look. 

“What was all tha’ about, then?” Porthos asked with a bemused but relieved look, as Aramis quietly inquired about the new cut on d’Artagnan’s cheek. 

Athos didn’t know, but he had a horrible, sinking feeling about it. 

\--- 

They had only a few minutes of being left alone within which they once again tried unsuccessfully to claw their way out of their restraints, before their captor returned carrying a vial and followed by one burly man. Athos eyed the little bottle distrustfully as it was uncorked with an obnoxious _pop_. 

“Open up,” Victor said cheerfully, looking directly at Athos who instinctively clamped his jaw shut. The man tutted and gestured to his guard, who easily overpowered the musketeer’s efforts to avoid whatever the man held aloft with glee. Strong fingers dug into his jaw, and he was forced to open his mouth when his head was yanked back harshly by a painful grip in his hair. Unable to even turn away, Victor poured the foul liquid into Athos’ mouth, which was then snapped shut and covered with a large palm to stop him spitting. The hand covered his nose, and he fought for breath. 

“Swallow,” he was ordered, and he had no choice but to comply. As soon as he’d ingested the liquid, the restrictive hand removed itself from his face and he was left gasping and choking, the strong and bitter taste biting at the back of his throat. 

He vaguely heard his brothers calling for him, yelling at Victor, but there was a blurred movement and a cry of pain, and they all fell quiet. 

Athos felt sick, the concoction making his pulse race and skin prickle uncomfortably. He began to feel strangely like he was on a boat, gravity gently changing its direction to throw him off balance, and the sea winds whipping away any sound that tried to reach him. He blinked, trying to focus on the lines of the floor that seemed to swim beneath his numb feet, before closing his eyes and deciding that was more likely to prevent his stomach churning so much. 

He breathed deeply, and tried to place where he was, memories muddled and facts that seemed so important were slipping out of reach. He lost track of time, wherever he was, and simply tried to keep upright, but the swaying of the boat – or was it just his head? – made it so hard to focus. 

Suddenly, a voice arose from the muffled void of his mind. 

“Where does the King’s route take him next week?” 

The question made his head less fuzzy, and he distantly recognised that the rumble he could hear was in fact coming from himself, though he couldn’t place what he was saying. The words kept coming, and over himself he could just barely hear the protestations of his brothers, shouting for something – at him? 

Something felt wrong, and the flow of words cut off as he fought against the nauseating floaty feeling. There was something nagging at the back of his mind, and he didn’t know why but he was sure he wasn’t supposed to be talking. Was he? The Voice repeated the question and he again felt the easy impulse to answer try to overwhelm him, but this time he concentrated on not letting the words out. Somehow, he knew it was wrong of him to answer, despite the urge to obey the commands of the speaker, but soon the fog overcame his remaining rational thought, and he was helpless to stop himself anymore. 

\--- 

Athos didn’t know how long he’d been out of it for, but he was increasingly aware that he was staring vacantly at a spot on the wall to the right of Aramis’ head. The world gradually seeped back into focus, his senses restored mostly to their ordinary functions and the horrible feeling that gravity had stopped working was gone. The fog had disappeared, leaving him with a terribly dry mouth and eyes that watered with an itchiness that came from not blinking for too long. He coughed uncomfortably, and the background murmuring ceased. 

“Athos?” a voice came from his side, and he turned to see three battered faces staring back at him with mixed concern and defeat. He blinked away the last of the stinging in his eyes. 

“’m here,” he mumbled, feeling exhausted with just the effort of speaking. 

“How are you feeling?” Aramis had asked that, already assessing his condition and cataloguing his symptoms. 

He frowned, trying to arrange his muddled memories with difficulty. There was a gap somewhere between the present and when Victor was last in the room, and he wondered if he had been asleep. Clearly seeing the confusion on his face, Aramis continued. 

“Victor gave you something, do you remember any of that?” He prompted, and looked hesitant at th blank look he received. D’Artagnan and Porthos were both quiet, but their expressions showed sympathy, and it took a moment for him to understand why. 

“It was a potion of some kind, to make me speak. Wasn’t it?” Athos asked, recalling the bottle that had been forcibly poured down his throat. “...did it work?” He held his breath, almost not wanting to know the answer. 

Aramis bit his lip but eventually nodded, and Athos felt himself sag. 

“I failed, then. The King could be in danger right now, and it’s my fault for telling him.” He felt his anger and frustration rising, but knew it would be useless in this situation. He couldn’t help but feel disappointed in himself. 

D’Artagnan sat up resolutely and fixed him with a glare. 

“It’s _not_ your fault!” He said firmly. “Victor made you talk, it wasn’t something you could possibly fight back against - how can you blame yourself for that?” 

Athos just closed his eyes, understanding the logic, but unable to forgive himself. 

“Pup’s right,” said Porthos, “you wouldn’t blame any of us if it were us he made talk, would ya?” Athos shook his head, knowing he was being walked right into his brother’s point of view but going along with a grudging fondness. 

“Head over heart, that’s what you always say,” Aramis piped up, “so why are you letting whatever misplaced guilt you have rule you now?” 

Their arguments were sound, and Athos, despite his unhappiness at the situation, couldn’t help but let a smile play at his dry lips. 

“I can always count on you three to drive sense into me,” he muttered fondly, and received three beaming smiles in response. 

“I’m sorry. There's no use dwelling on what’s already been said,” Athos conceded, “We need a plan to get out of here quick, before Victor decides we’re useless, and then we have to tell the captain that the information’s been compromised.” 

“I don’t think we have to worry about that too much,” Aramis said, and then grinned at them. “I’ve just seen Treville looking through the window.” 

As if on command, the door to their impromptu cell flung open, and in strode the musketeer’s leader himself. Behind him was a flurry of movement, and Victor and three henchmen were subdued by a group of musketeers and frog-marched out the front door, presumably to face their crimes in the chatelet. 

“Captain!” 

“Perfect timing!” 

“How did you find us?” 

Treville began working on untying them with the help of Paul, a cadet that looked up to the inseparables like many other young men in the regiment, and he waited until the exclamations of relief and joy had died down before explaining. 

“We’ve been searching for you since you went missing, and we almost missed a vital clue, but one of the ladies at the tavern pointed us in the right direction.” Their ropes were freed, and he helped Athos out of his seat, still dizzy and weak from the serum. “We thought we might have been too late, but he spent so long questioning you that we tracked him down and caught him just as he left.” 

Athos sighed in deep relief, thankful that his traitorous lips hadn’t managed to cause the downfall of the monarch they swore to protect. Treville supported him with an arm around his waist, holding onto his other wrist over his shoulder as the six of them finally stepped out into the fresh night air. Victor and his men had already left in a cart, and some musketeers remained milling about, who would search the property to make sure they had arrested all those who plotted together. 

The captain looked at Athos’s troubled and pale face, and sighed. 

“I know what happened.” 

Athos looked up in surprise, and then away in shame. 

“I couldn’t stop myself, I told him everything.” He admitted quietly, half expecting to be berated for his actions despite his friends’ earlier reassurances. 

“Exactly, you couldn’t stop; that potion is a vile invention, surpassing even the strongest man’s mental boundaries and drawing out every hidden truth. There was nothing you could do against it, and hear me when I tell you that you are not to blame for what you said.” They were still walking, but had drifted slightly back from the others at this point. “I have every faith in you, Athos, and I know you would never give up so willingly. But your stubbornness is as much a curse as a blessing. Listen to your friends when they tell you that you have done no wrong.” The captain smiled, a fatherly look crinkling the edges of his eyes and softening his normally stern expression. 

Athos nodded, pushing back the feelings of guilt and self-doubt that had begun to enter his mind, and remembered his friend’s compassion and understanding, trying to believe their words. 

Treville readjusted his grip on his still unsteady body, picking up the pace enough to start catching up with the others, who looked back at them and waited. 

“Let’s get you home, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swapped today's prompt (car crash) with one of the replacement prompts and managed to write it in one sitting, no idea if truth serum properly exists tho
> 
> i have absolutely not re-read this. 3 more days left!


	26. day 26 - gunpoint

Aramis jogged into the Garrison just in time for morning muster, hat askew as he surreptitiously slipped in line with the rest of the regiment. Athos shot a disapproving look from beneath his wide-brimmed hat, while d’Artagnan behind him leant forward to offer an impish grin. The marksman straightened his jacket, forcing his expression into one of contrition and subtly attempting to rebutton the front so it lined up properly while Treville called duties from in front of them. 

“New perfume?” Porthos asked from beside him with a raise of an eyebrow. 

“Ah, yes. I call this one _Eau de Lady Elene_ ,” Aramis replied, curling the tips of his moustache back into their perfectly groomed form as if he hadn’t arrived unkempt. “ _Very_ pleasing scent,” he couldn’t help adding, still affecting utmost interest in Treville’s words. 

Porthos rolled his eyes and refocused. When there was just the four of them remaining, the captain called them up to his office to give them further instructions. 

They were to investigate a series of thefts from blacksmiths around Paris, which had relieved most of the city’s shops from a great deal of weaponry with each targeted attack. It was feared that the weapons would be used in a coup once there were enough supplies, so it was important to stop them before things got out of hand and a miniature army was armed. Each of the four of them was assigned a shop to investigate, to find traces of the attackers and any possible witnesses. 

That was how Aramis found himself tied up on the floor of a barn with three of the thieves trying to beat answers out of him. 

It was arguably not his finest moment, but he had been drawn in by her big brown eyes, and believed her when she said she’d seen some unscrupulous-looking men heading towards this building only last night, with clanking bundles in their arms. It was only when she shut the doors behind him, trapping him inside with three brutes pointing guns at his head, that he realised he’d been had – in his defence, how was he supposed to know she was one of them? 

“Tell us what you know!” 

The man with drooping eyes demanded answers of him, fisting Aramis’ now tangled curls and pulling him to his knees with the painful grip. He grunted uncomfortably at the sudden movement, doing his best to breathe through his broken nose. Blood was running down his chin, soaking into his moustache, and his eyes had only just stopped watering. 

“I don’t _know_ anything,” he spoke, though his articulation suffered slightly from his injury, “if I did, I would spare myself some pain.” That was a lie, he wouldn’t talk, but if they believed him sincere then they might possibly let him leave, with only his current bruised state and nothing more. 

The man growled in frustration, raising his other hand in preparation for another hit, when the doors burst open. A younger man rushed in, dressed a little more poorly than the other men, and took only a second to catch his breath. 

“Musketeers!” He panted, leaning on his knees. “They’re on their way now! Two of ‘em, I think this one was seen comin’ here.” 

There was a moment’s pause, and then they jumped into action. Aramis was picked up roughly as another man opened a hatch in the barn floor, and he was thrown none-too-gently into the space beneath the floorboard, which had just enough room to stand with bent knees. The men all followed him in, after hurriedly throwing some hay on the bloodstains, and one of them tied a cloth gag firmly over the marksman’s mouth. 

“Not a sound,” droopy-eyes spoke threateningly in his ear, “any noise you make to give us away, and I'll shoot your little friends when they arrive.” He produced a pistol, along with the two other men behind him, and Aramis nodded un grim understanding. As much as he would like to escape his situation, he would never put his friends in danger. 

Minutes later, and the barn doors opened again, this time more tentatively, and in strode two familiar musketeers. 

“Aramis?” d’Artagnan called, walking in slowly and looking around for signs of his friend. Porthos followed him in, and though neither of them had their weapons drawn, they looked unnerved by the silence that greeted them, and seemed prepared for an attack. 

Below their feet, the three met aimed their pistols steadily upwards, sighting their targets through the gaps in the floorboards. Their leader tightened his grip on Aramis in warning, but he remained silent and still, breathing with some difficulty through the gag due to his blood-clogged nose. Dust and hay fell gently into their hiding space as the two musketeers walked right above them, and for one heart-stopping moment, Aramis thought Porthos looked directly at them, but he looked away just as quickly and nothing happened. 

“Not ‘ere I guess,” Porthos surmised, huffing in frustration and repositioning his hat. 

D’artagnan hummed uncertainly and absently brushed through his hair with one hand. 

“Maybe she gave us the wrong directions?” He shrugged, already walking towards the exit. “Let’s try somewhere else.” 

And with that, the doors closed behind them again. Aramis breathed out a sigh of relief, his heart no longer jumping out of his chest now his friends were out of danger. The men waited for a few minutes, then emerged from under the floor. 

“Eliot, you go back out and keep look out for us, yeah?” The boy nodded and scampered out of the building, leaving Aramis facing the same three men in the same predicament as before. 

They tore the gag free of his mouth, and he gasped greedily before spitting out a glob of blood that had run down the back of his throat with an unpleasant tang. He glared up at his captors, kneeling proudly despite the ache in his bones, and prepared to face another barrage of physical _persuasion_. 

Just then, two shots rang out in the emptiness of the large barn, and two of the men dropped instantly. The doors burst inwards once more, and the leader of the trio spun around in shock, reaching for his own pistol, only to find himself looking down the barrel of d’Artagnan’s own weapon. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he advised with a gesture for him to raise his hands in surrender. 

Porthos rushed past and untied Aramis with gentle hands, bringing them round to his front once they were released so Aramis wouldn’t have to clumsily manoeuvre them himself. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Aramis said, the tension bleeding out of his battered body. “I thought you’d already left?” 

Porthos grinned as he checked him for injuries, using his bandana to wipe away the blood staining his face with an almost delicate touch. 

“Smelled that lady’s perfume, same one as this morning, so we knew you were ‘ere. These guys didn’t clean up as well as they thought, and I saw one of ‘em move under the floor when I went to look at the bloodstains. Athos caught the kid outside and went back to tell Treville wha’ ‘appened, hopefully bring somethin’ back to carry these guys away in.” He nodded his head towards the two dead men, and the third who was by now restrained by d’Artagnan. 

“Y’know, ‘mis, I think this is the one time your womanising ‘as gotten you _out_ of trouble.” Porthos grinned, taking a seat beside him on the floor to wait for Athos’ return. 

“Ah... yes,” Aramis grimaced, deciding not to mention the woman who had tricked him into the barn to begin with. “I suppose it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- i am once again changing the prompt (i didn't want to do recovery so i picked gunpoint from the substitutes)  
> 2 days left now, thanks to everybody who's keeping up to date and commenting i love you all <3 have a lovely weekend


	27. day 27 - "i wish i'd never given you a chance"

“I wish I’d never given you a chance,” grumbles the man sat opposite Porthos, as he pushes his winnings forth with a petulant shove. Some of the coins skid off the side of the table and Porthos is quick to catch them, flashing a winning grin. He’d been pretending to lose every few rounds, keeping his opponent on edge the whole night as fortunes were passed from hand to hand, and happily accepted the wine he was being plied with. Unfortunately for Gerard, the big musketeer could hold his liquor much better than he let on. In the last round that Porthos begged for with slurring words, wherein Gerard thought he could win even more off his clearly drunk opponent, the tables were suddenly turned and Porthos employed every trick he knew to win back everything that had been bet that night. 

“Thanks for the game, mate,” Porthos said, standing and tipping his hat, “’til next time then, eh?” 

And with that, he sauntered merrily out of the tavern, pockets clinking healthily with each step. 

He wasn’t unwary about the walk back, suspecting that Gerard might try to take his winnings back by force, so he was prepared when the sound of unstealthy footsteps caught up behind him. He easily dodged the hit aimed at the back of his head, tilting to the side and whirling around to retort with his own punch. The first man went down like a sack of potatoes, and the two beside him stepped back in surprise and uncertainty before recovering. The shorter of the two yelled and charged, and Porthos simply grabbed his arm, redirecting the momentum and sending him sprawling to the floor. 

Before he turned to face the one remaining man, Porthos saw Gerard appear from the other end of the street, clearly using the first men as distraction to box him in. Gerard let his men fight first, standing back with thunder in his expression as four of his lackeys ran at the musketeer. Porthos sidestepped hits and struck out with his fists, landing more than he received, but was taken off guard when a more unsuspecting man took a small belt from his knife, and in one dreadful movement sank the blade into Porthos’ side. 

Porthos didn’t see the knife and simply felt a heavy punch land, so he threw himself sideways away from the source as fast as he could but didn’t think more on it. The adrenaline of the fight coursed through him, numbing the pain as he refocused, keeping his arms up in defence between each punch. Most of the men were down, laying on the floor and groaning at their various hurts, and only Porthos, Gerard, and two more men remained standing. The musketeer was beginning to fade, noticing a shake in his hands and fatigue in his arm muscles that he tried to hide with bravado. On the next hit he stepped forwards, landed a punch, and then his whole body followed through, succumbing to gravity as his body failed him suddenly. 

He landed hard, knocking the air out of his lungs with an _oof_ despite his outstretched arms, and the fall jarred the wound in his side that - with the warmth streaming down his skin - he could identify as a stab wound. 

As soon as he hit the floor and curled in on himself, Gerard and his men converged, raining kicks and punches on his prone form. One particularly aimed boot forced a cry from his lips as it struck his bleeding side, and for a few moments he was unable to move due to the sheer shock of pain. As he danced in and out of consciousness from his beating, he was vaguely aware of his weapons being taken from their belts, and his hat and jacket were both removed while he was too weak and stunned to fight back. 

He blinked, and silence rang heavy in his ears. His attackers had left him alone, taking with them almost everything but the shirt off his back, but the wound in his side was weeping freely and would need attention soon or he would bleed to death. The panic that would normally accompany such thought was strangely absent, and his thoughts and movements felt sluggish. Porthos crawled across the ground, hoping to reach somewhere more crowded or well-lit to call for help, but his numbing limbs failed him once again. 

As he lay on his back, admiring the stars with a tiring gaze, he hoped this would not be the last time he closed his eyes. 

\--- 

Comfrey. St. John’s Wort, Yarrow, and a bit of lavender. The smoking wick of a burnt-out candle. 

The scents mingled pleasantly in the air as Porthos gradually grew more aware of his surroundings, and when he finally opened his eyes he was unsurprised to find himself in his own room. Even less so to find Aramis sitting by his bedside, leaning back in the chair with his arms crossed and head tipped back, mouth parted with a light snore. The cool light of dawn filtered gently through his windows, not bright enough to hurt his squinting eyes, and leant a peacefulness to the scene that Porthos took comfort in. 

His wounds ached, most notably his side where he vaguely recalled being stabbed, but the ache was distant and soothed by the application of Aramis’ many remedies no doubt. The care that his friend gave him was touching, as always. Porthos was just glad that he was found in time to be saved, knowing how much their little quartet relied on each other. 

He shifted his foot and felt a weight at odds with the pile of blankets he was nestled in, and with a little difficulty he pulled himself up to sit against the wall. The weight was a bundle of leather, which when unwrapped became his missing sword, pistols, and hat, all wrapped up in his trademark studded jacket. His heart swelled, knowing that his brothers must have searched all night to retrieve them so he didn’t have to. He would have to remember to thank them when they visited, or when Aramis awoke. 

In the meantime, he was content to lay back and let his wounds heal properly, left he face Aramis’ wrath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little shorter, and another one that's not strictly what you'd expect from the prompt title. we've had a lot of aramis' hobbies getting him in trouble, but porthos and his proclivity for cheating at cards hasn't been mentioned yet so, here.   
> one day left!


	28. day 28 - you have to let me go

“You have to let me go, d’Artagnan,” Athos pleaded in one of his moments of awareness, not for the first time in the past hour. He sounded weak, far away, and his grip on d’Artagnan’s arm had long since been relinquished. 

“ _No_ , I _refuse_ to let go, Athos.” D’Artagnan managed through gritted teeth, and his pain and fatigue was painfully clear by the wobble in his voice. “You can’t ask that of me.” 

He choked out the last words through a throat thick with emotion, and refocused his energy on breathing properly. 

During the carriage chase, the horses had been spooked by a shot that landed much too close, and it was the tipping point in their already panicked state. The animals went wild, speeding off in different directions despite d’Artagnan’s best efforts to control them, and the reins snapped on a tight turn near the edge of the ravine that was growing closer by the second. It was sheer misfortune that overturned their carriage, sending its two occupants flying over the edge of the drop. 

Luckily, d’Artagnan still had a tight grip on the reins that somehow were tangled in the wreckage, and was saved from a deadly fall. _Un_ luckily for him, the straps had wrapped around his wrist in the commotion, and dug into his flesh with his weight, cutting off the circulation. Athos followed over the edge, flung from the capsized seat, and made a graceful arc in the air. d’Artagnan managed to catch him as he began to fall, both of them gripping each other with one arm, but with a wider arc to follow and a sudden change of direction, Athos hit the side of the ravine with enough force to temporarily stun him. 

D’Artagnan screamed at the sudden jolt to his leather-wrapped arm, but despite the agony of Athos’ dead weight pulling on one limb he kept hold of Athos’ arm, desperate to save him from the lethal drop into the shards of rock below. He breathed through the pain radiating through his entire torso, shoulder, and arm, and tried to ignore the throbbing in his forearm. If he put his hurt to the back of his mind, he could concentrate on keeping his grip firm on Athos, who was quiet and unmoving. 

Risking a look down, d’Artagnan saw a trail of blood start to run down his mentor’s face from a gash on his eyebrow, and his heart sunk. He didn’t know how long he could hold on without Athos supporting his own weight. His trapped arm throbbed, and he knew they wouldn’t be getting out of this without help. 

“Porthos!” He called, not hearing any sign of movement from above, the thunder of hooves and clash of steel having long since died down. No response. 

“Aramis!” He shouted, desperation seeping into his voice. Only the wind and rustle of the trees. 

D'Artagnan tried to force down his panic – what if his brothers were looking for them in the wrong place, or what if they were cut down in the attack without himself and Athos to help fight back, and he was just shouting the names of dead men? Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes from his spiralling thoughts, and he wished he at least had someone to talk to. 

He didn’t know how long he’s been hanging there, ignoring the tremor in his aching limbs and calling out for his brothers, but he’d long lost feeling in his arms, and was relying on the stiffness of his hand to keep a hold of Athos’ limp arm. He heard a groan, almost inaudible over the rush in his ears, but it snapped him to attention immediately. 

“Athos?” He asked, barely able to look down to check on him. 

A few moment went by wherein d’Artagnan thought he’d misheard, but then the arm he had hold of twitched and grasped his forearm in response, and he almost cried in relief. 

“D’Artagnan?” came Athos’ voice, unsteady but there nonetheless. “What happened..?” 

“Don’t move,” d’Artagnan called down, hoping his cargo wouldn’t start flailing about and put more pressure on his aching arm. “Our carriage crashed and we both went over. I think you hit your head, how do you feel?” 

A pause, where Athos must have tried to gather his thoughts. 

“I don’t think anything’s broken, but I don’t think I can climb up on my own.” 

“That’s okay,” d’Artagnan reassured, swallowing his nerves. If Athos couldn’t climb up him and reach higher ground, they were completely reliant on a rescue, and d’Artagnan wasn’t sure anymore whether it would come. 

“How long have we been like this?” 

“I don’t know, maybe half an hour?” D’Artagnan guessed, hiding the strain in his voice with difficulty. There was another pause. 

“D’Artagnan, your arm...” 

“I know.” 

Athos huffed. 

“You can’t hold us up like this forever, if- 

“I _know_ ,” d’Artagnan interrupted, knowing full well what he was trying to say. Aramis’ voice rang out in his head, reminding him that a tourniquet couldn’t be used for more than two hours or the limb would die, and have to be cut off. _But_ , d’Artagnan thought, _I would gladly surrender my arm, my life if it came to it, if it would save him_. 

Athos’ grip loosened and d’Artagnan panicked, tightening his already tired hand around his arm to keep him from falling. The action wasn’t deliberate, he found when he looked down, but Athos’ head wound must have taken a higher toll on him than he thought, since he was hanging limp and unconscious now. D’Artagnan took a steadying breath, and focused his determination on holding on until help arrived. 

The sun began to set, warm light at odds with the cooling evening air, and d’Artagnan’s throat was hoarse from shouting for help. He refused to believe their friends would abandon them, and refused even more Athos’ imploring words to get d’Artagnan to let go of him and save himself. His muscles screamed at him, shaking with the tension of holding them both their combined weight, and his left arm from forearm to fingers was completely numb. He didn’t know how much longer he could last. 

He was unsure if he’d heard it at first, so overcome by pain and fatigue by that point, but as the sound grew d’Artagnan finally recognised familiar voices in the air. It was faint, but the sound was like a balm to his despairing mind. 

“Aramis!” He yelled in desperate hope, voice cracking. “Porthos!” 

“D’Artagnan!” Replied Porthos, sounding relieved and confused and as desperate as himself. Footsteps grew louder as the pair raced from the wreckage, following the sound of his voice and the tense line of leather leading over the edge of the ravine. D’Artagnan near sobbed in relief when the frantic faces of his two friends peeked over the edge. 

Porthos swore and Aramis took in their situation with critical eyes. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll have you up soon. Is Athos hurt?” Aramis asked, wincing at the state of d’Artagnan’s trapped arm and trying to assess Athos’ condition. 

“He hit his head,” d’Artagnan managed, fatigue magnifying now he knew they were almost out of danger. 

In the end, it took Aramis abseiling down the rock face and tying extra rope around Athos’ waist – still being unconscious – so that Porthos could pull him up while Aramis supported his swinging body. The marksman steadied d’Artagnan as he was pulled up by the reins by Porthos’ strength. The leather straps fell loosely from his arm, leaving behind incredible bruising and torn skin where the edges had dug in. 

After a moment of numbness, the blood began to flow back into the arm and d’Artagnan blanched, face paling as he hunched over his arm suddenly and gasped in pain. Porthos sat beside him, supporting his weight and murmuring quiet reassurances as the younger musketeer shook and whimpered in agony. Aramis quickly bandaged Athos’ head, managing to rouse him enough to check for other hurts and give him some water before his head dropped back to the ground, blinking dazedly up at the sky. 

D’Artagnan saw he was awake and sighed, still tense and shaking and in horrible pain, but now that they weren’t alone, weren’t dangling from the edge of a long drop, he could allow himself to stop worrying. 

He crawled unsteadily over to Athos using his good arm, glared at him, and slapped his shoulder in fury. 

“ _Never_ ask me to do that again,” he said, letting his anger seep into his words. He would have continued, but his throat suddenly felt tight and his lip tried to wobble. Athos stared at him in mixed surprise and guilt. He sat up gingerly, aided by Aramis after a warning look, and placed his hands on d’Artagnan’s trembling shoulders. 

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, catching his brown eyes with an apologetic and sad gaze. 

D’Artagnan wavered slightly, emotions running through him in a confusing mix after the events of the day, and he surged forward, wrapping his arms carefully around him and burying his face in his shoulder. Athos folded him into his embrace, feeling the boy’s shoulders trembling in both exertion and upset. 

“I could never-” d’Artagnan began again, but cut himself off as he clung to him with the same white-knuckled grip as he held before. 

Athos could not promise that he wouldn’t ask him to abandon him and save himself again, it was the logical thing to do at the time and he could never forgive himself if they’d both died because of him. But they all knew that, they were all prepared to give their lives to save each other; it was a curse as much as it was the glue that kept them together. But for now, it was enough to just sit, and offer silent apologies. He smoothed his hand down d’Artagnan’s back, enjoying the warmth and comfort he thought he’d never feel again, and closed his eyes contentedly against the setting sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> March is tomorrow, the sun is warmer, I'm drinking fresh coffee after longboarding in the park for the first time in years, and I'm typing up the last chapter on a month-long challenge that I never fell behind in. Life is good <3 thank you to everyone who read, gave kudos, and commented – your encouragement kept me going and I'm so grateful for your support!


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